


D'énigmes et Guerre

by macsmackeroo



Series: Of Riddles and War [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU - Grindelwald’s War, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Beauxbatons, Black Hermione Granger, Blood and Violence, Characters of Colour, Cousin Incest, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/F, F/M, French Hermione Granger, Gen, Generation Mashup, Hermione centric, Hermione is Just Trying Her Best, Knights of Walpurgis, LGBTQ+ characters, M/M, Martiniquaise Hermione Granger, Original Characters - Freeform, Period-Typical Racism, Possessive Tom Riddle, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Riddle Family Centric, Slow Burn, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Tom Riddle-centric, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, World War 2, around the world, no beta im flying by the seat of my pants, please correct my attempts at different languages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:29:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 140,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24175891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macsmackeroo/pseuds/macsmackeroo
Summary: Tom re-read the letter twice more to make sure he was not hallucinating before refolding it and returning it to it’s envelope.Strangely, the first emotion he felt was not fury, at the absolute audacity of the woman, but rather, he felt hollow. There wasn’t the longing that he would have once felt as a child, wishing to be adopted, there was just...nothing. He did not feel sadness, anger, joy or even confusion.It’s 1943, Grindelwald’s war rages on, and Tom Riddle discovers there is more to the Riddle family than he originally anticipated.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Original Male Character(s), Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Ron Weasley/Original Female Character(s), Tom Riddle/Bellatrix Black
Series: Of Riddles and War [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1779724
Comments: 297
Kudos: 310





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> ’sup y’all giving this writing thing a try, cause im bored in the house and im in the house bored.
> 
> jks i work for starbucks so im essential~
> 
> anyway enjoy, i dont actually know what im doing /shrug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dec 2020 update : added a lil doodle

Prologue: Hogwarts Great Hall - September 1st, 1943

The pattering rain was loud as it hit against the stained glass windows of the great hall, followed by a rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning, startling the entourage of professors making their way to the front of the hall. A tall witch with ginger hair in a plait under her hat and royal blue robes waved her wand in an intricate pattern, instantly muffling the sounds of the weather. Her colleagues nodded appreciatively.  
  
“Splendid, Penelope! Can’t have such distractions during the sorting,” chimed one slightly port wizard with an impressive mustache.

“Thank ye Horace,” the witch, Penelope, returned warmly, her Scottish brogue pronounced.

“I’ve heard that we have quite the sorting this year, isn't that right, professor?” a younger wizard with dramatic red hair tied back into a tail, and a single fanged earring interjected, looking towards another auburn-haired professor with magnificent lilac robes.

“You are correct William, and you are faculty now, no need to call me professor anymore, just Albus is fine," the auburn-haired professor, Albus, replied, before continuing, "but yes, on top of seventy-two first years alone this year, we will also be welcoming sixteen transfers from Beauxbatons,” he finished, his face grim.

“That’s eighty-eight new students!” exclaimed Penelope, “I had heard that Grindelwald had managed to occupy the school last February, but I hadn’ta heard much detail,” she added cautiously, fiddling with the end of her braid.

“It is true, much has been kept under wraps to protect the transfers, and French muggleborn first years who would have otherwise started their schooling at Beauxbatons this year, in transit to Britain,” explained Albus, “Grindelwald may not have much footing here in the isles, but he is not without sympathizers,” he continued, normally twinkling blue eyes turned hard. “The staff at Beauxbatons managed to smuggle their muggleborn students to safety while under attack.”

“And the other students?” questioned another professor, a pale witch with an upturned nose and icy blue eyes, her accent a haughty Queen’s English.

“Please, don’t pretend the pureblooded children were not completely safe, Belvina,” retorted another professor, this one imperiously tall with dark skin, his voice soft and an accent very Welsh, which did not match his physical presence in the slightest. The identified professor, Belvina, bristled and was about to snap back but was cut off from the doors of the hall opening, admitting a rather tall, old wizard with steel in his eyes.

“Good evening, headmaster, excited for the New Year?” greeted Albus, earlier troubled expression all but gone from his face. The headmaster, sensing the discord among his professors, merely scoffed.

“Oh? Have I interrupted an argument? It’s only the first day, that was certainly fast,” his Northern Irish lilt seemingly amused, standing tall with his hands behind his back.

“Not at all, headmaster, we were simply discussing our impressive enrolment for this year,” responded Albus, amiably, folding his arms inside the sleeves of his robes, a mischievous glint to his eye. The headmaster snorted, turning to look at the two professors with the most annoyed expressions.  
  
“Is that right? Burke? Shacklebolt?” he wheedled the two, dryly, “Out with it now, I cannot have discord amongst my staff, especially not during these times.” He raised a silver brow patiently.

“Belvina here seems to be worried that the French students not of muggle heritage were overlooked by Beauxbatons staff,” the wizard, Shacklebolt responded waspishly, causing Belvina to sniff disdainfully in his direction.

“Well, Chidi here has assumed that my concern is not for the muggleborns, and only for those of magical parentage. This is not the case, I am merely pointing out that all children should have been evacuated, not just the few,” she replied evenly.

“Noice save,” chortled another professor, a short witch with cornrows and a cockney accent, earning a glare from professor Burke.

“Well, I’m afraid the only students who are actually our concern at the moment are the muggleborns, it isn’t our business how the French run their school,” the headmaster retorted, “this is not to say that I agree or disagree, but rather that it is not something we feasibly have any control over, what we can do, however, is help our refugee students feel welcome.” Briskly ending the discussion as he headed towards his seat on the dais.

“Well said, headmaster,” agreed Albus, opening his mouth to continue-  
  
“-I have apprised our head students of the situation, so rest assured, we should be of the utmost confidence that the transition for our new students is smooth,” interrupted Horace cheerfully, earning a series of groans from the other professors.

“Aye, we ken ye chuffed aboot tha head boy bein’ a Slytherin,” crowed another professor with a thick Scottish tone. Horace simply beamed like the cat that got the cream.

“Indeed! I knew he would, Tom is an excellent student, he was only the most obvious choice,” he bragged, needling his mustache as if he personally had achieved something incredible.

“Riddle? Aye, good lad,” nodded the headmaster, absentmindedly adjusting the sleeves of his robes. There was a pause before a crack was heard, reverberating through the hall, a house elf appearing with a missive in his small hands. Albus takes the parchment piece from the elf, nodding his thanks, allowing the elf to apparated away as he unfolded the note. Reading it quickly, he folds it once more, sliding it into his sleeve.

“The train has arrived, Oswald reckons he will need help ensuring the path to the castle is safe for the carriages from the rain,” he recounted, heading around the horizontal tables, along the side of the hall towards to door.

“I will assist you, Albus,” chimed William, following after his colleague, catching up quickly and exiting the hall.

“William has siblings that are still students, no?” asked a short, stout professor that had otherwise stayed quiet until then.

“Aye Edgar, two more years of Weasleys, about time, it was getting difficult keeping track of them,” laughed a spry older witch “Though William has certainly done well for himself, its pure luck that he was available to take the runes position after Nadine’s departure,” she mused, taking her seat on the dais.

“Well, Galatea, if you haven’t heard, there’s a war going on, hardly the time to be diving into ancient tombs in Egypt,” a heavy south Irish accent replied from a rather young professor missing an arm, attempting to balance a spoon on his fake hand.

“In any case, Sylvanus, it will be an interesting year,” another professor chimed, crisp queen’s English, an elegant looking man with dark skin and golden eyes.

“Right you are, Shafiq, right you are,” agreed the headmaster as the rest of the staff sat in their places, awaiting their students.


	2. Chapter 1 - Did I Hear That Right?

Chapter 1 - Hogwarts Great Hall - September 1st, 1943

The noise in the hall was deafening, all eight tables were filled with students eager to reconnect with friends after what had been, clearly, a pleasant summer.

Tom sighed through his nose, pinching the bridge between his eyes to stave off the impending headache. It had been a long day, after having left Wool’s Orphanage around eight in the morning, the trip to the station being infinitely easier now that he was seventeen and able to use magic outside of school, however, it had still been a jarring trip. Much of London that he had passed had abandoned and/or demolished buildings, the sky had been grey and the overall atmosphere depressing.

To say the least, Tom was almost envious of these magical children that had no idea the hardships outside their own personal bubbles. Almost envious, but not quite, in Tom’s opinion, the hardships of war had opened his eyes to the destructive and primitive ways of muggles.

‘Well, not all of them,’ he thought smugly, ‘at least, not anymore.’ Thinking of his now dead father, and dead grandparents, absentmindedly turning the Gaunt ring on his finger. His first Horcrux, it had been a truly excruciating venture, but it was worth it, in his opinion. He thought back to when he found his ‘family’, he had been disgusted to find them living in absolute opulence, even with the war raging around them, while he had struggled for food rations his entire life. It was unforgivable, so he had used the most unforgiving way to punish them.

He continued to recount his day as he made his way to the Slytherin tables. It was a soon as he got onto the train that he was handed a missive from Professor Slughorn from what must have been his personal elf. The missive notified him as head boy of the sixteen transfers from Beauxbatons, and increased amount of first years, and that he was to appraise the prefects accordingly.

He understood the note on what it wasn’t saying explicitly as well, sixteen mudbloods were taking up in his school, not to mention the added mudblood first years that he had no doubt were being redirected from Beauxbatons. Hogwarts was going to be overrun with them, this was just what he needed for his year as head boy; He’d have to pretend he cared for these sorry excuses for magic folk, as well as mediate what was obviously to be no man’s land on school grounds.

As the train moved, he made his way to the prefect carriage to find McGonagall, his counterpart in head duties, and possibly the only Gryffindor in the land that he could tolerate for more than five minutes. He nodded in greeting, taking in her no-nonsense stare, her eyes a pale green, not unlike his own, and her black hair tied back tightly into a bun. He explained to her the missive he’d received from Slughorn, noting with amusement, her shocked expression that broke her normally strict facade.  
  


“Sixteen?!” He wouldn’t say she gaped, but it was certainly close.  
  


“Sixteen,” he repeated with a close-lipped incredulous look, “Not to mention any muggleborn students originally intended to start their first year at Beauxbatons are now starting at Hogwarts,” he continued, watching her as she removed her spectacles and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“That brings admissions to eighty-eight new students?” she prodded, nodding towards the note he still held in his hand. He glanced at it briefly before nodding.

“Yes, a shocking average of twenty-five extra students than what we are used to, Merlin help us if the local schools in Ireland and Wales decided to send their students to Hogwarts as well,” he answered, McGonagall was about to respond but was interrupted by the door to the prefects cart sliding open, admitting a stream of students, prefects.

As they sat, he nodded briefly to Abraxas, the seventh year Slytherin prefect, who nodded back in greeting, he looked towards the seventh year girls’ prefect and was surprised to find Jaismine Shacklebolt, instead of the usual Bellatrix Black. He sent a questioning glance to Abraxas, who mouthed a silent ‘later’, to which Tom nodded and with a cue to McGonagall, started the meeting. Said meeting had gone about as well as could be expected, most of the prefects were excited about the new transfers, others mirrored the same sneer that Abraxas had adopted, and Tom truly struggled to turn his snort into a cough.

The remaining nine hour train ride had him sitting with the other Slytherin seventh year boys, his Knights of Walpurgis, however, head boy duties had him patrolling the train periodically. By the time they reached Hogsmead, it was pouring rain and Tom was well and truly done with the day. He’d also had to put on a mask immediately upon exiting the train to find Professor Dumbledore waiting with the newly minted ex-cursebreaker Professor Weasley.

Tom corrected himself, he grudgingly had a decent amount of praise for William Weasley, though he would never admit it out loud. He remembered him as one of the only prefects, and later head boy, who treated Slytherin students no differently from the rest. Then again, he did recall that the Weasley twins had been in Slytherin, they had graduated two years prior, Tom supposed that might have had something to do with it.

Once all carriages and boats safety made it to the doors, he along with the two professors, McGonagall, and prefects, herded all returning students into the great hall to be seated. Then proceeded to direct the first years into a line, and transfers into another, Tom hadn’t even bothered to take note of any of them.

‘They’re nothing but mudbloods anyhow, I don’t need to get to know them quite at this moment,’ he mused, straightening his plain black robes, shifting the hat on his head and sitting down with a few of his main knights.

He observed the two closest to him, Abraxas Malfoy and Thoros Nott. They were both sitting straight-backed with pressed, expensive robes, hats placed princely upon their combed heads, fingers locked in front of them in an attempt to seem nonchalant. Tom almost snorted, amused at the absolute pretentious air they seemed to radiate. He continued down the line to the other seventh year boys, Antonin Dolohov, Evan Rosier, and Frederick Avery.

Avery and Rosier were much the same in presentation as Abraxas and Thoros, however, they were currently attempting to trade chocolate frog cards on the sly. Dolohov on the other hand, had the first few buttons of the collar of his robes undone, hair slicked back, looking actual picture of nonchalance that Abraxas and Thoros were trying desperately to emulate.

He spied Shacklebolt at the other Slytherin table, turned away to speak with her friends at the Ravenclaw table, and remembered that he was going to ask Abraxas about that.

“So, how is Jaismine Shacklebolt this year's girls’ prefect and not Bella,” he asked calmly, folding his hands neatly in front of him, and as if hearing her name, Bellatrix Black herself, turned from her conversations with Irma Fawley and winked at him. Tom’s lip twitched, amused with her playfulness before turning attention back to Abraxas.

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear of it, Bella was caught hexing a Hufflepuff muggleborn on the last day before summer hols,” the boy explained, genuinely shocked that Tom hadn’t been made aware, “Not to mention Bella and Shacklebolt have always been close in scores, so it was an obvious switch.” Tom nodded, acceding in his mind that he had been preoccupied at the end of last year, planning to find his muggle family, making his Horcrux, he would have easily missed the trivial happenings of the school.

“She got caught?” he asked, shooting a cold look at Bella who looked rightfully chastised, giving him a look that conveyed her apologies. She was certainly lovely, he mused privately, taking in her pale features, wavy black hair that was plaited over her shoulder, her hat sat primly upon her head, her eyes a stunning grey. He sighed through his nose, again, looks aside, she was of no use to him now. Dealing with Shacklebolt was going to be a nightmare. She was an absolute stickler for the rules, her striking black eyes constantly scrutinizing and noting infractions, it was going to be difficult to plan meetings around her. Tom felt his headache from earlier begin to return.

Abraxas was about to answer when the doors to the great all opened, and Professor Dumbledore lead the many first years around the tables, along the side of the hall to stand and wait for the sorting hat to finish its song. Each table had coloured indicators along the edges to signify which house sat where. Tom blanked out, staring at nothing during the majority of the sorting, clapping appropriately for the new Slytherins. Slytherin by tradition did not permit mudbloods into the house, so he was of the utmost confidence that all who were sorted there, were the right sort.

He was just starting to feel hunger pains when Abraxas nudged him, nodding to where they were now sorting the transfers. Tom barely paid attention as foreign name after foreign name was called. A Jacques Allègre went to Ravenclaw, a Manolo Gonzalez Cordona, Spanish, he reckoned, also went to Ravenclaw, he noted they were all of varying ages.  
  


“Hermione Granger-Riddle!”  
  


Tom blinked, surely he hadn’t heard that right. He watched as a girl who he could only describe from a distance as very brown, walked to the hat, her back straight, her own uniform hat in her hands as she sat upon the stool, waiting for the sorting hat to be placed on her head.

“Any relation?” This question came from Dolohov, who shot him a curious look, in fact, he could feel the curious stares from many, both in his house and not.

“That I know of? No.” He shook his head as he answered, eyes never leaving her person as the hat shouted Gryffindor, and furthermore as she walked towards one of the house tables for the brave and reckless.

Was she related to him? What were the chances? Truly? He pondered on it and decided he would keep an eye on her all the same until he found out. The rest of the sorting went on without much fanfare and Tom couldn’t tear his eyes away from the peculiar Miss Granger-Riddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all Riddle is such a lil shit


	3. Chapter 2 - Écoute!

Chapter 2 - Gryffindor Tower - September 13th, 1943

Hermione awoke to the shrill noise of her wind up alarm clock that she kept beside her pillow within her charmed bed curtains, so that it’s rings wouldn’t disturb her roommates. She groaned and gave it a smack to silence it. Sitting up, she yawned powerfully enough to pop her ears, she willed herself not to fall back asleep as she dragged a hand over her face and picked the sleep from her eyes. She sat there a few more minutes in what she was sure was pure agony, before gathering the motivation to open her curtains, and pull the satin scarf from her hair.

It was only seven in the morning, she padded slowly over to the shared washroom with her clothing for the day, all of her roommates except one other, she spied a made bed, would still be asleep for at least another half hour, classes didn’t start until eight forty-five, she was up earlier because she was still getting used to mapping the castle.

It was Monday, so she had double potions first thing, she had prepared everything the previous night, even going so far as to braid her hair into tight cornrows. She had learned early on in her academic career that a stray hair would absolutely ruin a perfectly good potion, causing one to start all over again. She took absolutely no chances now, patting the rows while observing herself in the mirror, she proceeded to brush her teeth, wash her face, and dress. Slipping on a plain white blouse, wool stockings, and a long skirt, it didn’t actually matter what she wore, she mused, the plain black Hogwarts robes covered everything anyway. She persisted because it did make her feel more put together, and regardless that she was a witch, there were some non-magique habits she refused to let go of.

She shuffled back into the dorm, folded her pajamas and placed them under her pillow, and proceeded to make the bed, she felt it was only polite to help the staff of Hogwarts. Once finished, she pulled her robes over her head, fixed her hat on her head, and slipped on her boots, leaving the dorm as her other roommates started to rouse.

She reached the common room to find Géraldine Dubois, her roommate that had already been up, reading by the fire.

“Bonjour,” she greeted politely before passing her on the way to the portrait door, Dubois was a fellow nouveau-sang from Beauxbatons, but Hermione didn’t truly know her that well, they hadn’t necessarily socialized in the same circles, or well, Hermione had never been very social at all. She had tried desperately as a child but hadn’t had much luck, she was self-aware now to understand that she’d had quite the abrasive personality. Her later years at Beauxbatons saw hermake a few acquaintances with open-minded half-bloods, but with Grindelwald’s war spanning since the 20s, nothing had progressed any further than that. She did have a very good friend back home in Martinique, but seeing as she was in the UK now, she didn’t doubt that it would be a while until she saw him again.

“Attends ! Est-ce que je peux marcher avec toi ? Si ça ne te dérange pas.” Dubois jogged to catch up and Hermione turned to her and nodded hesitantly.

“Écoute,” Dubois- Géraldine started, Hermione looked her way curiously, prompting the girl to continue, “je sais qu'on n'a jamais été très proches auparavant, mais on pourrait essayer de le devenir?” she gave her a pleading look, and Hermione sympathized, so she agreed.

“Bien sûr, ça ne me dérange pas. Ce serait bien d'avoir une amie ici,” she responded slowly, hoping this wouldn’t bite her in the behind. She was telling the truth, Hermione was already noticing the glamour of being a transfer student fade, they were quickly becoming ‘other’ in the eyes of the student population. It truly wouldn’t hurt to have friends here, to watch each other’s backs.

Both girls entered the hall and seated themselves amongst one of the Gryffindor tables, and helped themselves to some coffee and a flaky pastry each. Hermione felt like she was being watched, but upon looking up she found no perpetrator, her eyes, however, did find the boy at one of the Slytherin tables, reading a newspaper and drinking tea. This was Tom Riddle, he had been pointed out to her by practically every single person that spoke to her, asking if they were related. What was Hermione to say? Yes? They didn’t know each other so that would be awkward. She had seen a picture of maman’s cousin Tom in the manor they recently moved into, which was a whole other mess she currently did not want to think about.

She supposed this Tom Riddle did look like her maman’s cousin, but as far as she knew, he didn’t have a son before being murdered earlier that summer. She wrote to her maman regardless, telling her about this Tom Riddle. Until she knew for sure, however, she would try to avoid him to the best of her ability. She turned to Géraldine, to redirect her train of thought.

“Quel est ton emploi du temps aujourd'hui?” and without missing a beat, Géraldine handed her schedule over. Hermione noted the rest of the week, for the most part, they had the same classes, however, since each house year was divided into two groups, there were classes where Géraldine was in the opposite group Hermione was in.

She also took almost all the classes Hermione had decided against, like Divination, Astrology, and Care of Magical Creatures, instead of her own Arithmancy, Advanced Alchemy, and Magical Theory. Fortunately, it looked that they’d at least be together for Potions, Charms, and Wizarding Studies.

She handed the schedule back, finishing her coffee and nodding to Géraldine to signal that she was ready to go, the hall was starting the fill-up and as she got out of her seat she bumped into someone.

“Je suis dés-..I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” she corrected herself halfway in English. The boy she bumped into was very tall, and he’d put his large hands on her shoulders to steady her, Hermione felt her face go hot, she was also self-aware to know how awful with boys she was.

“No worries, an accident,” the boy rumbled in what Hermione had learned was a ‘west country’ accent, and gave a friendly lopsided smile that made her heart stutter. “Hey, what’s your name again?I’m Ron Weasley,” he released his hands from her shoulders and held one out in greeting, she shook it, a little stunned, and hoping to God he wouldn’t notice her blush.

“Hermione Granger-Riddle, a pleasure to meet you,” she responded, mentally congratulating herself for not stuttering, however, she was a bit self-conscious of her accent.

“Nice to meet you Hermione, this bloke here is my mate Harry, and hanging off him like a bowtruckle is my sister Ginny.” She repeated greetings to both, shaking Harry’s hand, noticing his complexion was only slightly lighter than her own, and that he had stunning green eyes. Ginny was next, and Hermione wasn’t sure what she felt could actually be insecurity, as the Weasley sister was truly lovely. She had a mischievous countenance, thousands of freckles, and hair as bright as her brother’s.

“Nice to meet you, Hermione!” she beamed, and Hermione was struck for a moment, unsure of the pathetic prattle her heart gave. She righted herself and introduced Géraldine, after all, she refused to be rude.

“This is my friend and fellow transfer Géraldine Dubois.” Gesturing to her companion, who greeted the three Gryffindor warmly, before tugging on the sleeve of Hermione’s robes, reminding her that they needed to go. The two girls waved goodbye to the other three Gryffindor before heading out of the great hall and towards the dungeons.

It was just ten minutes to class start by the time they arrived in the potions lab, they found seats together near the front. Last week she hadn’t known what the other house in the class had been because not many people decorated their robes with house colours, and she didn’t know anyone well enough to make any guesses. This week she recognized a few faces, including Tom Riddle’s, so apparently it was Slytherin. She took out her schedule and scribbled a small ‘s’ within the class block, she put it away as Professor Slughorn arrived.

“Good morning class! I suspect you’re all settled in for a good year, as you know last week’s double block class was catch up and review, but starting this week, we will be looking closely at potions required for your NEWTS,” he all but bellowed, causing Hermione to blink, caught off guard by his joviality; that or perhaps it was just still too early.

“For this first semester, I will be pairing you in twos, I will give each pair a rare poison. With your partner, you will source your materials...legally.” Chuckling as he side-eyed his Slytherins playfully, earning a few smirks, “brew your poison, record your process in the report, which will also include a three foot essay on the poison’s purpose and properties,” he stopped, watching the students look around at each other curiously.

“That’s not all, you and your partner will also be brewing its cure, which I will not tell you what it is, you will brew that cure, record your process in the report, and write another three foot essay on the properties of said cure,” he finished, amused at the few groans he heard.

Hermione gulped, she had absolutely no connections here in the UK, depending on who her partner was, this could either be incredibly simple, or needlessly difficult.

She waited as Slughorn went through his list of pairs and their poisons, noting that Géraldine was paired with an Irma Fawley, she noticed also a bit too late that all Gryffindors were being paired with Slytherins. Somehow she knew where this was gonna end, and she was right because next Slughorn called her name.

“Miss Granger-Riddle, you will be paired with Mr. Riddle,” he chimed, seemingly proud of himself as if he had just told a particularly funny joke.

”Your poison will be Angel’s Trumpet Draught,” he added amiably, turning to look between her, and Tom Riddle.

“Of course, Professor” Hermione nodded, scribbling down the name in her planner, she distinctly heard the other Riddle reply the same, meanwhile her mind was blank.

  
‘Merde’ she thought to herself.  
  


So much for avoiding him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy bisexual disaster Hermione Granger, why did i do that?
> 
> Well, cause i too am a bisexual disaster.
> 
> Vague French Translations (cause im garbage) (Thanks to reader Lorelin on ffnet for correcting the French bits, you're amazing)  
> 1 - “Good Morning”  
> 2- “Wait! I will walk with you if you don’t mind”  
> 3- “Listen”  
> 4- “I know we have never been friends before, but maybe we can be? It’s us against the whole school now”  
> 5- “Of course, I don’t mind, it would be nice to have a friend here”  
> 6- “ What’s your schedule look like today?”


	4. Chapter 3 - You Don’t Fly?

Chapter 3 - Slytherin Dorms - September 13th, 1943

Tom let out a sigh through his nose, fiddling with the Gaunt ring, he dropped his bag onto his bed. He laid back and ran a hand down his face, speculating on everything that needed to be done, momentarily pausing his thoughts on his potions project. He’d need to use Abraxas’ connections to source Angel’s Trumpet, seeing as it was a highly regulated herb in the isles.

‘Legally,’ he mentally scoffed, Slughorn was as Slytherin as the rest of them, and as a Slytherin he would know that legality was the least of their concerns. Tom liked to think he only added it as a joke to scare the Gryffindors.

Speaking of Gryffindors, his mind trailed to his partner. He would have to gift some more crystallized pineapple to his professor for that move. Tom hated to admit that he couldn’t read a person, and it usually wasn’t the case, but with Miss Granger-Riddle, he’d gotten nowhere so far. It had been a week and she was only in two of his classes, not to mention he hadn’t managed to run into her outside of class anywhere in the castle.

He could tell that she was a dutiful student, enthusiastic even, with the way her arm shot in the air at each professor’s inquiry. He could also see that she kept detailed notes, from what he’d managed to observe from their measly shared two classes. He could not, however, find anything personal about her, he had asked Rosier, whose family had a French line, to see what he could find out. Though with the war, and his cousin, Vinda Rosier, positioned as Gellert Grindelwald’s right hand, he was warned that information may be slow.

She knew about him, though, and she was curious, that much he could see if her questioning glances told him anything. It did, however, annoy him that she made no obvious move to investigate, at least to his knowledge.

‘And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it,’ he thought, affronted, because on the surface it appeared now that he cared to find out more about her than she, him. As a mudblood too, Tom found it unacceptable, that he, the heir of Slytherin, should have to lower himself to find information on someone who should be a non-entity to him.

He didn’t want to admit that it chaffingly reminded him of his grandparents and father, who when he’d met them, he’d been enraged to discover that they knew all about him, even knew that he was at Wool’s, and had still left him there to rot.

He shook his head, he was getting ahead of himself, he did not even know that their shared name wasn’t a coincidence. He recalled her physical appearance, brown kinky curls that today had been tightly braided into neat rows against her scalp, her complexion only a shade or two lighter than her hair, and her eyes were a striking warm brown. There was nothing in her features that truly shouted ‘Riddle’ either; her lips were rather big, her nose a bit wide, and eyes almost cat-like. In the muggle world, she would certainly be considered an ethnic minority, in the UK at least. He could tell that she had observed him almost to the same degree that he, her; and he was almost curious as to her thoughts, before stopping himself.

He would use this opportunity that Slughorn so graciously provided him to find out everything he’d need to know about her, and once the itch was scratched, he would go back about his plans; like setting up the most optimum opportunities post-graduation, and furthermore, his plans for the future of Wizarding Britain.

Gryffindor Tower - Same Day

Hermione returned to Gryffindor tower after finishing her classes for the day, deciding to get a head start on some homework in the dorm before dinner. She desperately had wanted to join Géraldine in the library after Wizard Studies, but admittedly, she was still shaken from her experiences the previous year.

The library at Beauxbatons had been her sanctuary, she was positive she had spent more time there than anywhere else in the castle for the five and a half years of study there. Incidentally, it was also the library she was in when the castle had been attacked in February, it had been so sudden and absolutely nobody had been prepared. One moment she had been at her table, the same one she always studied at since her first year, the next second, someone had grabbed her by the scruff of her robes and had flung her to the floor.

Hermione was ashamed to admit, that at that moment upon seeing the scarlet robes of Grindelwald’s soldiers, her mind had gone blank. All she could think of at that moment was that they were assured the castle was safe. Having one wizard standing over her while the other was kneeling At her side, pawing at her robes; at that moment she had forgotten every offensive and defensive spell she had ever known. It had been one of the most terrifying experiences of her life; she remembered vaguely that they had demanded if she was a Kama, or a Sambiani, two names she recognized as pureblood families of African descent. Before she could open her mouth to answer, curse, or even scream for help, the men were stunned on the floor beside her and one of Hermione’s professors was there pulling her up by her arm, telling her to hurry. Professeure Delacourhad helped her escape from the castle, and although it had been illegal, had used legilimencyto find what her home looked like and created a port-key to get her to safety.

Hogwarts was considered safe, especially if the rumour was to be believed that Grindelwald feared Dumbledore. Despite this, Hermione refused to be caught unawares again, not until the wars were over, and perhaps not even after.

Walking in through the portrait hole, she heard her name being called. She looked over to see the three students she met earlier that morning, they waved her over, and curiously, she went.

“We were wondering if you play quidditch?” it was Ginny who asked, “we’re having a pickup game before supper, figured we’d ask you and your friend to join,” they had such pleading faces, that Hermione was almost tempted to give in if it weren’t her awful fear of heights.

“That’s sweet of you to ask, unfortunately, I don’t fly, and Géraldine went to the library right after our last class today,” Hermione replied, as politely as possible.

“You don’t fly? Do you not know how? I could teach you if you’d like,” this reply came from Ron, who was rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, “I mean- I’ve helped teach loads of firsties who’ve had trouble with it,” he explained quickly, causing both Harry and Ginny to snicker behind their hands.

“Come on, the weather is nice out, I mean if you’d like.” He held his hand out, looking a bit unsure and Hermione couldn’t bear to crush this sweet boy’s enthusiasm, so she took it. Following him back out of the portrait hole, with the other two following behind, laughing. Her mind was blank as soon as she decided to take his hand, so she was just bumbling along behind him. She supposed her plans for the day changed, so much for getting a head start on homework.

So for the rest of the day, she humoured Harry and the Weasleys, and not once did she think about the wars, or worry about being in the open, or even ponder the scrutinizing pale green eyes of her potions partner. For that afternoon, Hermione was just a regular teenager without a care in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a relatively short one, but it’s both from Tom and Hermione’s perspective.
> 
> Also, if anyone is curious, my face claim for Hermione in this story is Kourtney George, who you can find on instagram at creolekourt, I just think her hair is perfect.
> 
> and ya i dont f w Weasley bashing, not in this house.
> 
> anyway hope you guys enjoyed this chapter.


	5. Chapter 4 - The Knights

Chapter 4 - Hogwarts Great Hall - October 5th, 1943

Tom made his way to the great hall for breakfast, pondering the news Rosier had brought him the night before. He’d had heard back from a cousin who did some investigating in the educations department of the French ministry. Apparently Miss. Granger-Riddle wasn’t even from France itself, but from an overseas region of France, Martinique, an island in the Caribbean. Tom felt more secure in the idea that she was of no relation to him after all, he could put that solved puzzle behind him. After all, it was plausible to have a distant cousin from France, considering there wasn’t much distance between here and there, but not even in Europe? It could only be pure coincidence.

He took a seat and began preparing his tea, looking up to find the Daily Prophet owls had arrived, as they usually did before the mail owls. He placed a knut in the pouch of an owl’s leg and grabbed the paper from it. There wasn’t much on the Grindelwald war front, but there was a bit of coverage of an uprising in Naples against occupying German forces. Also featured was the arrival of Allied Forces in the section covering the muggle war, almost towards the end of the paper in the smallest square.

Tom nearly rolled his eyes, of course, they would put it where hardly anyone could see it. He personally knew the destruction Muggles could cause, they were dangerous and primitive, that it was foolish to underestimate them. Actions like these were the reason most magic folks didn’t know any better. He knew though, if the wrong muggles found out about the magical world, that there was only so much magic could do to protect them. He didn’t want to think of how a ward would hold against a blitz. Grindelwald was doing magic folk a disservice by trying to blow up the Statute of Secrecy. Tom agreed with the rest of his beliefs, but not that, he believed the magical world should be closed off entirely from the muggles, and that muggleborns were the biggest danger to their national safety.

Tom sipped his tea and ate some toast, not feeling particularly hungry when the mail birds arrived, and surprisingly a letter was dropped by his plate. He froze, the only time he expected mail was when he wrote articles for academic publications for pocket money, however, now was not one of those times.

He placed his tea down and turned the envelope in his hands, it was addressed to him alright, he turned the thick card stock envelope in his hands to find a return address only to find none but a red wax seal with a scripted ‘R’. He waved his wand over it, checking for jinxes or curses but there was nothing untoward about it, he shrugged and tucked it away in his bag to read later.

“Mail?” asked Thoros, who had witnessed the whole ordeal, Tom simply nodded and hummed noncommittally before returning to his tea, mind curious about the letter he had received.

He glanced up to catch sight of Granger-Riddle, which had become a bit of a habit in the last month. He grimaced upon seeing her look at Weasley like he had hung the stars in the sky. What she possibly saw in him, he would never understand. Even by Wizarding standards, and despite the few decent ones, the Weasleys were no better that pureblood farmers.

Tom finished his tea, made to grab his bag, and began heading towards his first class, History of Magic with the Hufflepuffs. While walking, he saw in his periphery Abraxas and Evan fall into step with him, and seconds later four more of his knights joined them, these ones being Graham Montague, Terence Higgs, Marcus Flint, and Orion Black. Though Montague and Higgs were from neutral families, they still supported his ideas and plans, their purpose was to amass support from the neutral faction of the Wizengamot. Flint was muscle, not the brightest, but his family was firmly dark faction so he was a valuable asset all the same. Black was an invaluable ally, he was the son of the non-disowned Black heir, Regulus Arcturus Black. His uncle was Sirius Black III, in other words, the only Black in history to ever be sorted into Gryffindor.

It was Orion Regulus Black, his classmate, who had advised heavily against the release of the basilisk to cleanse the school in fifth year. Orion was the only one of his knights that saw the idea for the bad one it was and had informed him so accordingly. Orion had explained that as the only direct descendant of Slytherin in the isles, the lordship was his to be claimed when he came of age. To release the basilisk, incurring negative press upon the name would have given him away immediately had he tried to claim it at a later date. It became apparent that as Lord Slytherin, his plans for the wizarding world would be much easier to implement, regardless of whether Grindelwald won his war or not.

As they approached and entered the History of Magic classroom, Abraxas leaned in.

“So, no relation then,” he prodded hesitantly, Tom gave a curt nod.  
“She’s from the Caribbean so I highly doubt it,” he replied, raising an eyebrow at Abraxas, “Why do you ask?” Only to be answered with a smug smile.

“Slytherins are planning a little something for our new resident muggleborns, to welcome them, wanted to see if there were any restrictions,” he answered glibly under his breath as Tom rolled his eyes.

“Don't tell me anymore, as head boy I need plausible deniability, and remember, anybody gets caught, they’re on their own,” he instructed, Abraxas nodded and gave a mock salute before turning to find his seat.

Did he care if she was targeted? No, of course not.

‘Whatever, if she gets caught up in it, she seems clever enough to get herself out,’ he mused, uncaring, as he balanced his quill between his fingers.

He had only met up with Granger-Riddle for their joint potions assignment once a week, he was almost positive she was otherwise trying to avoid him.

She did impress him, however, by the second time they met, she had already had a list of ingredients for the cure and had already procured half of them. She had a few for the poison itself and had outlined her processes, giving him a copy to add his own. She was efficient, he’d give her that.

‘Then again, anyone can be a good student, but not many can be a good mage,’ Tom didn’t share any practical classes with her, so he had no idea of her actual skill level, ‘she’s a mudblood, so probably weak.’ Turning his attention back to Professor Binns, he forcefully changed his train of thought to pay attention in class.

The rest of the day went much less the same, until he was finally alone on his bed later that night, after patrols. He pulled the letter that had been taunting him all day, popped the wax seal, and began to read:  
  


_Dear Tom Riddle Jr._

_This letter may come as some surprise to you, or it may not. If it does, allow me to explain, my name is Helen Sophia Granger-Riddle, you may recognize my surname, as I am your classmate, Hermione Granger-Riddle’s mother. In this letter, however, I write to you as your cousin, or more specifically your second cousin once removed. As I am sure you’ve deduced, Hermione has told me about you, though I suggested that she try not to engage you until I could find out more. The truth of the matter is that I am appalled that you have not formally been brought into the family. You are, of course, under no obligation to even respond to this letter, however, before you make that decision, I would like for you to consider a proposition of mine._

_You are apart of the Riddle family, despite your father and grandparents’ atrocious behaviour, and I would see you instated where you belong._

_Your Sincerely,_

_Helen S. Granger-Riddle_

_Riddle Manor_

_Little Hangleton_

_Malton, UK_

Tom re-read the letter twice more to make sure he was not hallucinating before refolding it and returning it to its envelope. Strangely, the first emotion he felt was not fury, at the absolute audacity of the woman, to write to him seventeen years later, but rather, he felt hollow. There wasn’t the longing that he would have once felt as a child, wishing to be adopted, there was just...nothing. He did not feel sadness, anger, joy, or even confusion, it was all very straight forward, there had been no double meanings or any duplicity, that he could tell.

‘This will take some time to consider,’ he thought about the pros and cons of accepting such a proposal, suspicious of her plans. What did she gain from any of this? Of bringing him into the family? Did she suspect him of being behind the murders of his father and grandparents? What did she know?

‘And Miss Granger- no, Hermione,’ he mouthed her name, liking the feel of it.

‘What is her role in all of this?’ He wondered, deciding the only way he was going to get any more answers was by getting them from the girl, once he knew more, he would decide if responding was a venture worth his time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whelp, if anyone was wondering why i made the Gaunt ring the first horcrux, here ya go. 
> 
> idont understand people who remove tom’s racism or the fact that he’s a pos when writing him, that’s like 75 percent of his characterization. sure, it’s an unsightly characteristic but its his all the same, gotta work with it.


	6. Chapter 5 - Technically We’re in Scotland

Chapter 5: Advanced Alchemy Classroom- October 6th, 1943

Hermione dutifully took notes on alchemic formulas to control how human anatomy regenerates diseases. She truly thought Alchemy was a fascinating subject, giving a rounded magical equivalent to what the non-magique perceived as the science of medicine.

Professor Shafiq had informed them that they would be covering the alchemic practices required to heal from regenerative diseases, such as tumours and cancer. This was especially a subject Hermione was interested in, as a personal matter close to her heart, her papa had passed away five years ago due to complications with epilepsy, a condition he, a doctor himself, had struggled with most of his life.

Hermione, however, despite how much she wanted to pay attention, couldn’t because she was absolutely positive Tom Riddle was glaring holes into the back of her neck. She clenched her fist, she knew why he was staring. Her maman had written to her of the relative discovery and informed her that she had personally written to Tom Riddle on the matter. She wasn’t sure what the letter he received contained that resulted in his unwavering attention on her person, but she was sure she’d find out soon enough.

All the same, her mind wandered, would he be angry? Should she be concerned? Harry and Ron had warned her that although not all Slytherins were bad, Ron’s brothers being prime examples, there were still many who supported Grindelwald and his ideals in that house. Was Tom Riddle one of them? She was quite obviously a nouveau-sang, or ‘muggleborn’ by British standards, and if he was personally bothered by being related to one, however distantly, should she be prepared for a less than positive reaction from him?

It was Wednesday, they usually met after class and headed to the library to discuss and work on their joint potions assignment. Maybe she could steer them to a more populated table, she mused. He would probably be waiting outside the classroom once the lesson ended. Hermione glanced down at her watch, noting there was only five minutes left to class, Professor Shafiq was just wrapping up his lesson. She looked down at her notes to make sure they were comprehensive enough to read later, the bell chiming as she finished doing so. Packing her bag, she stood and jumped to find Riddle standing and waiting right next to her.

“That was fast,” she remarked, to which he only gave a slight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and held out his arm for her to take. Halfway to the library, crossing through the third floor, the silence was stifling, and a part of her joked about her not living to see supper.

She brushed it off and began conversation.

“So, I assume you’ve received the letter?” she prompted, maneuvering the figurative ball into his court.

“I did,” he clipped, offering nothing more.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, feeling her ire build, if he wanted to act like a child, then fine, she would treat him like one.

“And do you have any questions?” she asked slowly, but didn’t get an answer because half a second later she was roughly shoved into an unused classroom, her wand pointed at him before she could even regain her bearings, panic briefly flashed through her mind before she stomped it into submission.

“I do not appreciate being manhandled Mr. Riddle,” she snapped, not even caring that her accent became thicker at that moment. She stepped back to put some space between them, while he was looking at her like she was the most amusing part of his day.

“Call me Tom, we are family apparently,” he replied affably as if he hadn’t just shoved and cornered her in an empty classroom. Hermione couldn’t stop the incredulity that raced through her, and she was sure it showed on her face.

“Are you out of your mind? Is this what passes for manners here in Britain?!” She retorted, unbelieving in the audacity of this boy. She stilled, however, when she noticed something frigid enter his expression, but it was gone before she blinked and she’d wondered if she imagined it. Perhaps he had not appreciated the comment on his mental faculties.

“Technically, we’re in Scotland,” the charming persona was back, but Hermione was positive she had seen everything she needed to, to know not to trust him at face value.

“But to answer your earlier question, yes, I did receive a letter, from your mother, and I suppose, yes I do have questions,” he began, his tone reeking of condescension, observing her almost as if he was conversing with an animal of lower intelligence.

Hermione bristled, but tried not to snap, she wasn’t foolish, no normal boy would corner her like this just for answers. As well, no normal boy would be so unbothered having a wand pointed at them in self-defense.

“You couldn’t ask me these questions in the library?” She asked, but knew the answer, the fact that he even had to corner her in secret, told her everything she needed to know.

She nodded mockingly at him, clucking her tongue.

“Don’t bother, I already know your answer, you just do not wish for anyone to find out that you are related to a nouveau-sang, but I’ll tell you one thing now.” She stepped up to him, wand poking him in the chest. She had to lift her chin to look him in the eye, almost flinching at the vicious look that flashed there. Nevertheless, she persisted.

“I am not inferior to you, and you do NOT have the right to accost me like this for your own comfort,” she almost whispered, tone savage. She waited for a beat, refusing to break eye contact before moving back towards the door.

“Whatever problem you have with my existence, you better figure it out and do not bring me into it. When we can speak civilly on even ground, then I will answer your questions.” A quick flick of her wand, the door sprung open and she turned to walk away. She purposely showed her back to him, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he’d frightened her. He let her go, in any case, though if looks could kill she was certain she may have died at that moment.

She fumed her entire way back to Gryffindor Tower, she didn’t even care that they hadn’t worked on potions, the only thing she could feel right now was the persistent knot at the back of her throat, and the burn behind her eyes.

She wanted to rage and break something, she had dealt with some form of racism her entire life and she was sick and tired of it. If Tom Riddle wanted to be such a person, then she did not need to give him another minute of her time.

Empty Classroom - Meanwhile

  
He felt his nostrils flare, how dare she?His jaw ticked and he’d decided what he wanted to do at that moment.

It was later that evening after supper, that he stood within the owlery, tying a letter to the leg of a horned owl, it’s contents bare:

_  
Dear cousin Helen,  
  
_

_I accept  
_

_Regards_

_Tom M. Riddle Jr._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thrive on validation, feed me kudos.
> 
> Jks u guys can read an tap out whenever u want
> 
> Hope ya’ll enjoyed this chapter


	7. Chapter 6 - Maman

Chapter 6- Riddle Manor - Little Hangleton - October 8th, 1943

The day was foggy as Helen moved past the windows on the third floor of the manor. Padding her way downstairs towards the main dining room, the floor plan of Riddle manor buried in her subconscious from her childhood.

If someone had told her years ago, that she would be back here, she would have laughed in their face. Even five years ago had been significantly different from the life she leads now. She had been happily married and living in relative safety in the Caribbean, even with the war going on. She thought of Antoine and her heart ached, what would he say in regards to everything she’d had to do? Would he have supported her decision made at the helm of fear for their child? Would he have had a better option available in that vast mind of his?

She entered the dining room, greeting the maids who were in the process of laying out tea and scones. Every day since his death, Helen stopped to consider what he might have done if faced with the same misfortunes as she had. Maybe she had made the wrong choice coming back to Britain, of changing her surname back to Riddle, of changing her child’s name to match, to help provide them with safe passage back to Britain. When she’d heard from her daughter a year ago, that on top of the war being fought around the world, there was another one her daughter was facing just for being magical with non-magical parentage. That this other war was against people like herself, and for the subjugation of people like her daughter, horrified her.

How else could she have protected her daughter when she had no magic, so she had done what any other concerned mother would do, she had written to the headmistress of her daughter’s school to request advice. She’d realized that her requests could have been brushed off, that her worries would be seen as inconsequential. Fortunately, that was not the case, for Headmistress Béchamp had sympathized with her. She had explained that she, herself, had once been in Hermione’s shoes, as a nouveau-sang.

Her advice, however, had curdled Helen’s stomach for more personal reasons.

‘Go to Britain,’ she had written, ‘it is safe for magicals of Hermione’s standing there’.

Going to Britain had meant prostrating herself to her family, especially if she were fleeing to there alone with her daughter. She had considered for years while Antoine was still alive, that maybe they could all go together, and avoid the Riddle family because she did miss her home country, but it never panned out, or was never the right time, and then Antoine passed and she forgot about it entirely. To do it now she would have to write specifically to her first cousin once removed, who was head of the family, Thomas Riddle. They originally had been furious to learn of her marriage to a black man, despite his profession as a doctor. Thomas Riddle had written to her, offering his son, Tom’s, hand in marriage to ‘save’ her from her fate, and then furthermore disowned her when she refused, notifying him of the birth of her daughter, Jeanne Hermione Granger, in 1925.

She stirred her tea, caught in recollection. It was September of 1942 when she had reconnected with him for the first time in fifteen years. He postured like she knew he would, but had made her an offer nonetheless. She could return to Britain with her daughter, on the condition that she married his son Tom to beget a ‘proper’ heir. She’d agreed, so she had gathered and prepared appropriate papers, including Hermione’s transfer to Hogwarts, the school in Scotland. She made sure to include her correspondence with Thomas Riddle, in the event that they were apprehended. Everything had been ready and Helen had planned for them to leave as soon as Hermione arrived home in June.

When Hermione had popped into existence in the small courtyard of their Martinique home in February, she knew something was wrong. Her darling girl was shaking and in clear distress, so Helen had decided that they would leave sooner.

Despite leaving months ahead of schedule, they had arrived in Britain in July. They had spent months laying low in different French cities, avoiding both German soldiers and soldiers of Grindelwald. Her daughter’s life depended on both never catching them, one because of her status as a nouveau-sang, the other because of the colour of her skin. Helen was not proud of the many things she’d had to do, but she would have done them all again to keep her girl safe.

She sipped her tea, trying to warm herself from the icy hand that gripped her spine from the memories of their time in France, and changed her train of thought to the murder of her relatives. Upon arriving in Little Hangleton, they had found out that Thomas Riddle, his wife Mary, and her supposed betrothed Tom, had been murdered by the degenerate that lived in the shack off the outskirts of the property. Helen only vaguely remembered the Gaunts as fringe people who had always spit at her as a child. She recalled they’d had a girl a couple of years younger than her, who had been a lank, skinny thing with pale green eyes that had pointed in opposite directions.

She’d found that after investigations (her kept correspondence with Thomas Riddle proving to be paper gold in protecting their innocence in regards to the murders) that Tom had married the girl, Merope. He apparently had left her when he was tired of her, it was assumed that she eventually died a pauper on the streets of London, as she never came back. If that had been the truth of it, Helen would not have blamed the brother, more so if it hadn’t negatively affected herself and Hermione.

Putting her teacup down, she glanced around the dining room, in all its utter opulence. The Riddles had always been a very wealthy family, but they were not old money, nor were they titled. No, The Riddles had made their money in less savoury ways than that. They had started in trafficking and prostitution houses in the early 1700s, shifting towards opium dens in the early 1800s until they tried their hand in weapons manufacturing in the 1850s with the opening of Riddle Arms and Weaponry. It had started small, making pistols for domestic use, before growing to include rifles that they supplied overseas, to eventually supplying heavy arms to the British army during the war of 1914-1918, and continued to do so for the current war.

She selected a scone, generously applying a cream to it. Now, however, with all the Riddles dead with the exception of herself and her daughter (who she knew would be disgusted with the business). With both of them being women, Helen was being pressured by both foreign and domestic investors to either merge or sell. Letters were becoming more and more demanding, and with Hermione at Hogwarts for her final year of schooling, she hadn’t known what to do.

That is until her girl had written her about a Tom Riddle at her school. So, Helen investigated, positively turning the manor inside out, until she had eventually discovered a journal that had belonged to her cousin, Tom, hidden in between the canvas and mounting of a painting in his suite. It was in this journal, Tom recalled his marriage to Merope, where he wrote of enchantments and bewitchment. He described having no free will and feeling trapped in his own mind while a stranger in his body lived his life for him. He wrote how he had suddenly been freed, and of being told by his ‘wife’ that she was pregnant. Traumatized, he had done the only thing he could think of, which was to go home.

He wrote of travelling to London years later to find out what happened to her. It had taken him a couple of months, but he had tracked the only lead he found, only to discover a boy who looked remarkably like himself,except with his mother’s eyes. Tom confessed that he had panicked, believing this boy to be as unnatural as his mother, and so he had left him where he was. Writing that he partly felt guilty for abandoning a child who was obviously his own, but being unable to look into those pale eyes without wanting to die.

Had Helen not had a daughter who was a witch, she admittedly would not have sympathized with her cousin, believing him to have lost his mental faculties, speaking of bewitchment. She did have a witch for a daughter though, and knowing what she knew of the magical world, and all the possibilities of magic, she could not in good faith fault Tom for his actions. She had read her daughter's textbooks each summer she was home, to have a better understanding of the type of world she was giving her girl away to. She had read both the good and the horrifying, and despite her reservations of it, she knew Hermione loved this world, so she decided she would support her daughter.

This, however, did not prevent her from sympathizing with the boy. He was no older than Hermione, and he had grown up having no one. She saw in that moment, that she could bring Tom into the family. She could teach him of the business, even instating him as heir to it, to appease investors that there was a man in charge. She would offer to run it herself though, allowing him to focus on his life in the magical world. Therefore, keeping Riddle wealth in Riddle hands, and furthermore protecting the boy from conscription into the war, which as an orphan, would have been mandatory for him once he finished school.

The sound of pecking broke her reverie, seeing an owl at the window of the dining room. She requested the maids to take a break and leave her for a private moment, to which they gladly obeyed, before she got up, and making sure first that she was truly alone, opened the window deftly to allow a great horned owl onto the ledge. Taking the letter from its leg, she nodded to the top of the bookshelf beside the window where she had learned to keep water and treats for visiting owls. When Hermione was first found to be a witch, Antoine had purchased an owl for family use, he had even named her Coco (because they could always find her up in the palm trees). She found, however, that visiting owls tended to nip if not offered something for their services.

Popping open the wax seal, she read Tom Riddle’s response and folded it again. It was certainly quick, she worried, tapping the letter against her palm. She noted that she hadn’t received anything from Hermione, but she disregarded the thought. She figured it might still be on its way, as she didn’t spy Coco anywhere outside, observing that the earlier fog had lifted. The visiting owl hopped down from the shelf and hooted to be let out, and though she felt silly talking to an animal, she told it to wait while she wrote her response. A couple of minutes later, she returned with her letter, inviting Tom Riddle to stay with them during the Christmas hols, she would explain more to him then and see if he still agreed. She tied the envelope to the owl’s leg and let it off.

She stopped and wondered again if she was doing the right thing, and wondered what Antoine would have done in this situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’ve discovered that if if i eat my hot cheetos with chopsticks, i get all the enjoyment and none of the mess. life changing. truly.
> 
> hope you guys enjoy mama riddle’s chapter. lemmie me know ur thoughts.


	8. Chapter 7 - Are You Giving Me Advice?

Chapter 7 - Third Floor Hallway - October 23rd, 1943

“What did she do?”  
  


Tom snapped out of his reverie at the slight Russian accent, to find Antonin casually leaning on the opposite side of the same window he was. He had been looking down into the courtyard of the castle from the third floor to find _her_ tucked in with Potter, the Weasleys, and a gaggle of other Gryffindors he couldn’t be bothered to name.

It was Saturday, so she was in muggle civvies, and in fact, all of them were. Tom mentally scoffed, blood traitors, the lot of them, he felt his lip twitch into a sneer before righting it. He would never understand to desire to align with muggles, he was forced to do so every summer, and he despised every minute of it. He turned his attention back to Antonin who was waiting patiently, Tom raised an eyebrow in question.

“I only ask because lately you’ve been focused, and specifically on her.” Nodding in her direction, so Tom went back to observing her. She was wearing a light blue dress that complemented her complexion nicely, a thick wool cardigan of a darker blue around her shoulders, and her hair was unbound. Despite it being late October, the sun was out and from afar he could pick out lighter shades in her curls.

“Nothing I wouldn’t have done,” he answered, finally, and he wasn’t lying per se. If another had treated him in the manner he had treated her, he would have become quite violent. Her initial reaction was tame in comparison.

“Wasn’t that weeks ago?” he asked, his ‘w’s always sounding like a ‘v’s. As well, Antonin always did have a special talent for verbally rubbing salt into raw wounds. Tom snorted.

“You’re chatty today,” he deflected, glaring at the other boy, who only put his hands up in mock surrender. He was right though, it had been weeks since he had attempted to corner her. (Not that Antonin knew that specifically, only that something had happened, as Tom did not gossip his shortcomings) She had been absolutely frigid to him since, and he wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much.

“Well, whatever your plans for her, do not let them interfere with your bigger picture,” he started, lighting a fag between his lips, “and I say that in the least patronizing way possible,” he finished, taking a drag. Tom briefly recognized it as a muggle brand, rather than self-rolled as most purebloods preferred their tobacco.

“Are you giving me advice?” he asked jokingly, nodding towards the fag. Antonin pulled it away from his face to give it a once over, before shrugging.

“Just because it is muggle made, does not mean we cannot enjoy it,” he jibed right back, nodding towards the courtyard, amusement shining in his dark eyes. Tom’s gaze turned to follow, he hadn’t notified any of his knights of the discovered relation, but he knew Antonin was far too clever and observant by a half and had probably suspected anyway.

Of course, Tom understood Antonin’s insinuation perfectly well and wasn’t surprised, incest was par the course for British and even some European wizarding families. He digressed, the massive amounts of inbreeding meant to eradicate any muggle blood from the line was a noble pursuit, in theory, however, it also had many undesirable consequences in progeny. He thought back to when he’d met Walburga Black, Orion’s grandmother at the Malfoy Yule celebration, who was positively unhinged. It was surely the reason Orion’s father had married a pureblooded witch from Japan, rather than looking within Europe.

He just didn’t know how he should even approach the insinuation. On one hand, the natural progression of thought that ran through the standard pureblood was fascinating to observe from an anthropological perspective. On the other, he wasn’t even sure what it was he wanted from Granger-Riddle, ‘Hermione,’ his mind corrected. A part of him disdained that she was a mudblood, furthermore, he was disgusted that she was related to his filthy muggle father. What bothered him though, was that he was also drawn to her for pretty much those exact reasons.

‘ _“Whatever problem you have with my existence, you better figure it out,”_ ’ she had snapped at him, and he supposed she was right, he did need to get his priorities straight. This whole fiasco has done nothing but mess with his head. He thought back to the response he had received from her mother, his cousin. Once his anger and indignation passed, he’d almost regretted sending his acceptance with almost no knowledge of what he was getting himself into. She had vexed him to the point that his normal logical nature flew out the window without a care in the world.

They were interrupted by the seventh year Hufflepuff prefect, Diggory, calling his name in polite greeting. Tom glared at Antonin but then plastered on an amiable smile, taking note of Draco Malfoy, Abraxas’ younger brother, trailing sullenly behind him. At Tom’s glare, Antonin quickly vanished his fag, muttering an air freshening charm under his breath.

“What seems to be the problem?” He asked Diggory, who in turn nodded in Malfoy’s direction.

“Caught him hexing one of the muggleborn transfers, taking him to Slughorn now,” the prefect briefed him.

“I can take him off your hands, Diggory, go ahead and enjoy your Saturday,” he offered, noting Diggory’s slightly suspicious expression. Tom backtracked.

“Don’t worry, I won’t deal with it myself, I’ll take him to Slughorn for proper punishment.” Seemingly pacified by that, Diggory inclined his head in salutation and left. It was only once out of sight that Tom turned his glare on Draco.

“Well? Come along then.” Mockingly clearing the path for the younger boy.

“Wait, you’re actually taking me to Slughorn?” Draco panicked, “but I thought-”

“-you thought I would cover for you? You got caught, and now I’ve already said I would.” Tom stepped closer, and though Draco was tall, Tom was slightly taller, so he used his height to intimidate, “tell me, is your little prank worth my reputation as head boy?”

“N-no, of course not,” Draco stammered, and Tom briefly recalled Hermione, who’d had to crane her neck to maintain eye contact with him, had held more spine than this pureblood scion. He scowled, scaring the boy and surprising Antonin, who stood to the side watching the events unfold. He did not like how she was affecting his day to day life.

“Well, let’s go then, and explain to me the purpose of your prank.” He jerked his head in the direction that would lead to the dungeons.

“We’ve been planning it since the beginning of the year, I had found a delayed reaction hex that enters the victim into a nightmarish coma.” By the gleam in his eye, Malfoy seemed quite proud of himself. Antonin whistled in appreciation.

“How many did you hit?” he asked, deciding to accompany them to Slughorn’s office.

“All of them, but I personally got the Gryffindors earlier.” Draco puffed his chest, while Antonin let out a shocked laugh, swivelling to look at Tom.

“All of them?” he confirmed, eyeing Tom wearily, who’d been silent, and to which Draco nodded.

‘So she would have been hit’ He thought, he had just been watching her after all, and she had seemed to be in high spirits.

‘I suppose we’ll wait and see,’ he mused, continuing the journey to Slughorn’s office in silence. This was much to Draco’s chagrin, who was clearly looking for praise.

It was as they approached Slughorn’s office that they ran into McGonagall, who was running in their direction to the same destination, she entered the office only seconds before them.

“Professor Slughorn,” she began, regaining her composure. “Madam Pomfrey has requested your assistance in the hospital wing,” she continued, throwing a suspicious glance at the three of them.

“What’s this now? What’s happened?” Slughorn demanded, looking between all of them.

“A couple of muggleborn transfer students seem to have been hit by the same curse, I have to go request Professor Merrythought’s assistance as soon as I leave here.” Throwing a contemptuous glance, specifically at Draco. It was a good point to remember that McGonagall was no fool, she would suspect him in half a moment more if he continued to say nothing.

“I actually might be of some assistance,” he calmly interjected.

“I was on my way to bring Draco here to you Professor, who was caught in the act of hexing a muggleborn transfer, perhaps he can enlighten you and our esteemed mediwitch as to his methods,” he explained, gesturing to the younger Malfoy beside him, who gulped in response.

“Always so responsible Tom! Thank you, see Miss McGonagall? We’ll have those students treated in no time!” the professor beamed, reaching forward to clap Tom on the shoulder.

Tom mentally sneered but maintained his agreeable countenance.

“Of course Professor, it pains me that such behaviour is courtesy of our own house when I found out, I had to make it right,” he professed, earning a sceptical look from McGonagall, before turning back to the good professor.

“That’s all well and good, but I am still going to notify Professor Merrythought.” Inclining her head politely, she left.

“Professor, if you don’t mind, I would like to accompany you to the Hospital Wing. I’d like to help in any way I can,” Tom offered, to Slughorn delight. Tom was curious if she was there, and it didn’t hurt to maintain his image as the dutiful head boy.

“Absolutely Tom! Ten points to Slytherin for your dedication to your fellow students,” Slughorn crowed. He heard Antonin turn a snort into a cough beside him. The professor proceeded to lead them to the hospital wing, Antonin joining along for the adventure for kicks, admonishing Draco along the way.

Once they arrived, he noticed all twenty beds were filled. So much for a delayed reaction, that had been quick.

‘So they decided to go for some of our own mudbloods as well,’ Tom thought, mildly impressed with his house.

To his left he saw Hermione, still, in her light blue dress, her cardigan had been removed, laying in one of the beds. Her hair was mussed more than usual and there was a crease between her eyebrows as she shivered and recoiled in her sleep. Tom wondered what her nightmare was, part of him hoped it was something awful, simply out of spite for the way she spoke back to him weeks ago. Another part of him was a tad unnerved seeing her in this state, though he refused to give credence to that part.

It was that moment that Headmaster Dippet, Professor Dumbledore had arrived with Professor Merrythought. Dumbledore’s eyes landed on him, and Tom could feel his own irritation rising, for those eyes held no suspicion, just cold disappointment. Tom turned away, greeting the headmaster instead.

He explained the story and gestured to Draco to confess. Did he feel bad about tossing Draco under the proverbial train? Not in the slightest, he had warned Abraxas weeks ago that anyone caught was on their own. It may also have warmed his cold, dead heart to see the boy sweat, especially after discovering he was the one who cursed one Hermione.

“This is quite serious, Headmaster,” voiced Professor Merrythought, looking concerned. Tom felt something curdle in his gut, glancing towards where Hermione lay briefly, before turning back to his defence professor, missing the curious expression of Dumbledore, who had been watching him.

“ _Metu Iniecto Sanctuarii_ is a very dark curse, with no actual counter-curse that I can recall,” she explained, looking towards the bedridden students, one as young as twelve, all in states of clear discomfort.

“As it is, they are in no danger physically, unless they attempt to harm themselves in their sleep. They will need to fight their way out of their terrors,” she concluded. Both professors and headmaster had grave expressions, while Merrythought’s was worried.

“There must be something we can do to forcefully wake them up, I’ve heard muggles use smelling salts,” piped Slughorn, to which Madam Promfrey rebutted, explaining that it would do nothing but burn their nasal passages needlessly.

Grim, Headmaster Dippet, an already intimidating wizard, spoke, “Poppy, please have each of these students transferred to St. Mangos’ Janus Thickey ward.” His expression livid, he turned to Draco.

“I am sure the Malfoys will be pleased to pay for every single muggleborns’ treatment. In the meantime, Mr. Malfoy, you will be accompanying me to my office. Horace, please notify his parents and also have the elder Malfoy brother brought to my office. Albus, please contact the Aurors.” The colour drained from Draco’s already pale, pointed face.

Antonin whistled low under his breath, and Tom, well Tom already felt the headache this mess was going to cause him, Abraxas would not be pleased with him, as he had a talent for being especially whiny.

He wandered over to Hermione’s bedside, noting that her normally warm brown skin was ashy, and her eyes were squinted as if in pain. Perhaps he would write her mother to alert her of her daughter’s condition, he could still use this to his advantage.

He plucked a curl that had pasted itself to her forehead and moved it back, she twitched when he touched her. He briefly wondered if he was in any of her terrors.

He certainly hoped not, after all, he hadn’t even gotten started yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive got nothing. i dunno, tom’s still a dick, but thats to be expected.
> 
> hope y’all enjoyed


	9. Chapter 8 - Is This The Real Life? Is This Just Fantasy?

Chapter 8 - Hermione’s Dream - Time Unknown

**Trigger warnings for this chapter include: Slight gore, death, and attempted non-con.  
**

Hermione vaguely remembered sitting out in the sun with the friends she had made since arriving at Hogwarts. She recalled attempting to count the freckles on Ron and Ginny’s faces to see who had more, she had been entrusted the task as the neutral party, and the winner would receive a chocolate frog from Harry as a prize. Géraldine sat to the side, watching with mute interest, and she remembered her roommate, Lavender, laying her head in Parvati’s lap, their affection for each other obvious as they sniggered under their hands at the competition. Hermione recalled being surprised at the transparency of their relationship, as a nouveau-sang and as a born and raised Roman Catholic, everywhere she had ever lived had openly condemned such relations, but she had found it heartwarming. Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan were playing a game of exploding snap against Neville Longbottom and Augustine Laurent, another nouveau-sang boy that had been sorted into Gryffindor.

She remembered the freckles she had been counting on Ron’s face had begun to blur together, and that she began to feel both hot and cold at the same time. She remembered standing, to maybe go sit in the shade for a bit until it passed, black spots dancing in her vision and pain racing to her temples. She remembered falling and then everything was white.

Suddenly, she opened her eyes and she was six years old. She tugged her hand free of her papa’s, walking alongside him on a beach in Tartane, they were visiting for a vacation, and she had seen a large shell. The tide was strong and she was pulled in. All she could feel was terror, and the saltwater rushing up her nose and down her throat with a burning ferocity. It felt like hours that she was spinning in the water, struggling to paddle herself to the surface, begging for air.

She could have sworn that she remembered her papa had dived in almost immediately to pull her out, her maman admonishing him for letting go of her hand. She managed to pop her head above water for a split second to see the beach was empty and that both her papa and maman were nowhere to be seen. The tide pulled her under again, filling her lungs, and she began to see spots. She vaguely caught a glimpse of her legs, finding them to be strangely longer then they should be.

Everything turned white again soon after.

When it faded, she was eight. She was reaching to grab the ball that her neighbour Cécile kicked too far. It rolled to a stop in front of one of the street dogs, it’s back hunched, ribs showing, and patches of fur missing. As soon as Hermione’s hand touched the ball, the dog lunged. It bit into her hand, tugging its snout left and right as her hand sprayed blood. She was screaming and managed to wrench her hand away, only to see her fingers missing. The dog lunged again and went for her neck, ripping and snarling as Hermione choked on her own blood. She could hear Cécile screaming. It went on for years, she was absolutely sure.

‘This isn’t right,’ she thought, her mind foggy. A street dog had indeed nipped at her that day, but it had been more afraid of her, than she, it. Her papa had run out at Cécile’s scream and had chased it away. Papa had taken her into his clinic. He had taken her hand gently, cleaning away the small amount of blood, and patching up the bite. She remembered it all so clearly now. He’d even told her to breathe in and out deeply as he gave her the rabies vaccine, then giving her a winning smile when she braved it without tears. The dog was suddenly gone, and she was still laying on the ground.

She raised her hand to her face, it was whole again, and her vision went white.

This time, she was twelve, and she was home in their house in Fort-de-France. It was the summer hols after her first year at Beauxbatons, the weather was so humid, that she knew it was going the rain soon. She was working on her summer homework at the kitchen table, trying to block out the after the smell of salted fish they’d had that morning for breakfast. She’d gotten up, and went towards the stairs to call up a question to her papa, who was in his room. She vaguely noticed that her maman was still not home, she had left earlier to go to the market. They’d run out of tea, and as a stout Englishwoman, that had been unacceptable, she could drink the piping hot beverage no matter the weather. She would be home in exactly 42 minutes, just barely missing the rain.

It was the first time she recognized her circumstances for what they were before the ‘horrible thing’ happened. She was in a memory. A particular memory that she would never forget as long as she lived, no matter how much she wished she would. She felt the sob work its way up her throat.

“Why is this happening?!” She wailed, tears blinding her, her distress hitting her rapidly. She slid down against the wall beside the stairs. She didn’t want to go up, she couldn’t live through it again. It was as soon as she thought this, however, that her body lifted itself to stand, as if against her will, and began its ascent up the stairs to the second floor. She tried to focus on the paintings lining the stair wall, all done by her mamie years ago, anything to mentally prepare herself for what was coming.

She turned towards her parent’s bedroom and entered. All mental protest silenced as she saw him. Her papa lounged on the bed, his right leg hanging down. He was so still, his eyes open, staring at nothing, and there was a smear of blood under his nose. She began to hear a ringing in her ears and felt a twist in her stomach. It was as if time itself had stopped. Her feet were glued to the floor, and her eyes upon her papa’s corpse.

She didn’t go to shake him like she had when she was twelve, pulling back when she’d noticed how cold he was, despite the humidity. She didn’t call for him, louder and louder, begging him to move, to wake up. She didn’t kneel by his bed, clutching his hand. She did, however, feel the bile rise up her esophagus as it had all that time ago, but she did not vomit on the floor beside her as she had then. No, this Hermione choked it down and absorbed what was happening.

Suddenly, she was eighteen again, and she examined her papa for the first time in five years. It felt like she stood there forever, taking in every detail of this pale comparison and comparing it to the man she had known. Ashy skin was replaced with the darkest brown, almost black in hue, and the dull countenance was replaced by dazzling features. She remembered how his forehead had always seemed shiny, how his eyes crinkled when he laughed, and how white his teeth were when he smiled. This cadaver was not her papa. Her papa had been a loving, warm man, with a soft voice and large hands. He was a man who always looked at the world with childish wonder, who had named the family owl Coco. Someone who constantly snuck her books and trinkets even when she had misbehaved.

She would not let this memory cow her, she was stronger than that. She would always remember her papa as he had been and not as she last saw him, and no nightmare was going to ever take that from her.

She exhaled and braced herself for the whiteness.

She was in the library at Beauxbatons, she was seventeen and it was February, the windows showing only a flurry of white of what seemed to be a blizzard outside. She was studying legal misuse of potions for her Magical Law elective, currently reading up on the many abuses of Gorgée de Chance, the luck potion. She heard the main door to the library violently bang open, and she scoffed under her breath at the lack of respect some students showed. Putting it from her mind, she returned to a case of the luck potion being abused during the 1864 Quidditch World Cup.

There was a niggling sense of déjà vu in the back of her mind, but she ignored it, continuing to flip through the records compendium. She heard heavy footsteps and before she could turn her head to investigate, a large hand grabbed her from the scruff of her robes and threw her to the floor. She crawled backwards, looking up to see the grim faces and scarlet uniform of Grindelwald’s soldiers. One was blond with a shaved cut, a square jaw and scowl, the other was also blond as well, but with softer, more handsome features. That one smiled amiably before reaching down to grab her ankle, dragging her back before them. Her mind blanked, only barely recognizing that the stern man was speaking.

“Es tu un Kama?” he gruffly barked, his accent indicating that French was not his spoken language. All she could think of was where she left her wand, but when she tried, she couldn’t remember nor think of a single defensive or offensive spell.

“Ou peut-être un Sambiani?” the softer soldier questioned in a low murmur.

“Réponds-moi maintenant!” snapped the stern soldier, apparently losing his patience.

“Oh elle tremble,” cooed the softer soldier, one hand still holding her ankle, the other running up her leg, edging her robes higher in the process.

Hermione started to hyperventilate in earnest, she understood what was about to happen. Something felt wrong about all of this, and so she began to panic. Yelping as he yanked her under him, pulling down her stockings, while the stern man turned away. He tugged off her shoes, and removed the garment from her legs before tossing them to the side, and spreading her legs. She was frozen, she couldn’t move, panic had gripped every single one of her muscles.

  
‘This did not happen.’

  
She was positive, breaking through the fog in her mind, she craned her neck from where she was lying on the floor, to look between the aisles of shelves. Professeure Delacour had arrived before any of this happened. To her dismay, there was no one around.

She felt the soldier reach under, and run his finger along the hem of her underwear. Snapping back to her current situation, she began to screech and kick, adrenaline throwing her into high gear. No one had ever touched her there, and having being raised under religion, no one but her future husband ever should. She struggled, clawing at the man’s face, but was stunned instantly when he punched downwards on her chest. Her breath rattled as her vision went spotty.

She heard a clinking of the belt that cinched his robes and snapped her eyes shut.  
  


‘This did not happen.’

  
She had escaped and gone to Hogwarts, sobbing as the soldier jerked her hips forward. She scrambled her hands to find purchase onto anything that would help her pull herself away.

‘That’s right.’ she had gone to Hogwarts, what had happened there? She tried desperately to think. Flashing recollections of red hair and freckles raced through her brain, surely the friends she had made hadn’t been a figment of her imagination.

  
She remembered pale green eyes, glowing with a certain viciousness.  
  


‘THIS DID NOT HAPPEN.’  
  


Suddenly, she was alone. The soldiers were gone. She was still laying in the Beauxbatons library, but strangely enough, she was wearing the plain black robes of Hogwarts. It felt like a weird fever dream.

‘No,’ she thought wryly, ‘I certainly would not have been capable of hallucinating someone like him.’ It was then when she realized the stray thought she’d almost missed. This was all a dream, or well, a nightmare. Multiple nightmares, but the crux of it was that she was asleep.

She closed her eyes, softly sighing, willing herself to wake up. She was exhausted, she felt like she hadn’t truly slept in years.

When she opened them, it took her a moment to adjust to her surroundings. She was in a hospital room, and all she could hear was a faint beeping sound, and bustling of staff out in the hallway. Her eyes and face were wet, and she couldn’t move her arms, as they were restrained over her chest, like a straight jacket from asylums she’d heard about. Feeling a niggling of fear begin to ignite, she tried to call for help, but her throat was so dry, it was simply torturing trying to gather saliva to swallow.

“Welcome back.”

She turned her head, and to her dismay, found none other than Tom Riddle, one leg reclined over the other, closed book in hand, looking the picture of regal nonchalance; but what unnerved her entirely, was that he was looking at her as if she was the most interesting thing in the world. She glared at him, having only one exasperated thought running through her mind.

‘This can’t be good for my health.’

* * *

Tom lounged beside Hermione with the grace of a cat, it had been a little more than a month that she’d been there. When she was first cursed, Antonin had reported to him that Dumbledore had been watching him intently when he had been by her side that first day. It then occurred to Tom that he could use Hermione to curry favour from the eccentric bastard, and so he did. It was also a bonus that he’d be sating his curiosity in seeing if she could fight the curse.

He had written to her mother, informing her how and why her daughter was in the hospital. He gave his word to personally check in on her, as he had explained that as a non-magical person, she would not be permitted to enter St. Mungos, and that he would update her.

The more he corresponded with Helen Riddle, the more he was beginning to get a feel of what kind of person she was. There was a formal lilt to her written word, that conveyed aloofness, but the content of her letters, and that she replied quickly indicated that she was anything but and that she cared about her daughter a great deal. He supposed she would have to, though, to brave travelling half across the world during two on-going wars. He couldn’t personally understand the dedication, as he had never had such close ties with another living soul, but he could appreciate it because it had brought Hermione to him.

He had shown his correspondence with Helen to Headmaster Dippet, who had therein approved the use of his personal floo on Sundays, so that Tom could travel to St. Mungos, provided he be clear of any head boy duties.

So that’s how it started, every Sunday he sat at Hermione’s bedside for about two hours, and wrote to Helen any updates, generally making up a load of bollocks to appease her. It was an infallible plan, as even Dumbledore looked to believe that maybe there was some good in him after all (there wasn’t) but he wasn’t going to spoil that for him.

Besides, observing an unconscious Hermione seemed to feed a sick need in him. Seeing her lying there with her arms restrained across her chest (she had tried to scratch at her throat at one point), with new tear tracks on her face, made something in him purr with satisfaction. He tsked as he swiped some errant curls back behind her ears. He could tell they’d just been using a standard hygiene charm, as her curls were dry and almost brittle to the touch, nothing like the healthy, well-maintained mane she normally sported when awake.

None of the other mudbloods had awoken yet, they were all in a state of distress and there was nothing the healers were able to do. He had heard of an attempt to use legilimency to bring them back, only for one of their legilimens to get caught in an unconscious mind. Every expensive treatment had been tried, including cursebreakers, all to no avail, the Malfoys footing the bill for all of it.

‘Not that this would even make a dent in their wealth,’ Tom thought, vaguely amused.

Draco had been suspended for two weeks instead of charged, simply by the grace of being underage, as he was still sixteen, and despite gruelling interrogations, the rest of Slytherin house got off scot-free. Draco had been foolish to get caught, while the rest were resourceful enough to cover their tracks. He personally had corroborated his own innocence with this little stunt of his, shifting his position back on the armchair, turning his attention back on his charge at the sound of a whimper.

‘Whatever her terrors, they must be truly awful,’ he mused.

He returned to his book, a pocket compendium of dark poisons that Thoros had lent him from his personal library while finishing the rest of his and Hermione’s joint potions assignment. He’d gotten the idea of perhaps creating his own poison from it, and he thought maybe he would incorporate some aspects of this curse, just to remember this time by. He was only about an hour in when he heard it, a sigh, curiously not on-brand with the cacophony of cries, whimpers, and gasps that he’d had the enjoyment of hearing.

He looked up, closing his book in time to see tear-soaked lashes flutter open, and he watched fascinated as her pupils adjusted to the light of the room. If he wasn’t mistaken, she was the first to wake, he had read that it took a particularly strong mind to combat the effects of the _Metu_ _Iniecto_ _Sanctuarii_ \- terrorize the sanctuary, a rough translation. It was a curse created to subdue one's enemies while ensuring their suffering; it was created in the time of Emperor Augustus in direct retaliation to the burning of over two thousand magical books in 31 BCE. It was a curse so old that it had fallen from public memory entirely, Tom thought it was especially impressive that a bunch of school-age boys managed to dig it up.

Yet, here she was, gaining more bearings as the seconds passed.

“Welcome back,” he murmured softly, taking in every twitch and movement as her head turned and her eyes shifted to meet his. It took only a second for her to begin glaring at him as if realizing who was actually sitting with her. Tom fought a smile, even tied down and weak, she still had an impressive amount of nerve. Tom stood and let out a huff of laughter when she flinched. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and proceeded to wipe her tears and face, all while she attempted to push her head further into her pillow to avoid him.

“Really? What could I have done to earn such contempt?” he scoffed playfully. They had been perfectly cordial before his (admittedly) misguided attempt to corner her early October. Perhaps that was not his best move, but he had attempted to convey his apologies, however in-genuine, to her before she was cursed only to be brushed off in a frigid manner.

Which was, he confessed, one of the reasons she had his attention, because she didn’t want it and he was unused to such rejection. Not from any girl, at least, and especially not in Hogwarts, his time in Wool’s Orphanage notwithstanding.

“And after I’ve been corresponding with your mother for all this time, keeping her updated on your condition.” Folding his handkerchief and replacing it back into his pocket. Her eyes followed his hand's movement, before snapping back up to his face in confusion.

“What?” she rasped, grimacing as she attempted to clear her throat. Understanding, he transfigured a goblet out of a sickle in his pocket and filled it with water. He cupped a hand around the back of her head, pulling her up, making no reaction to her sweaty curls, and helped her drink. After having enough, she cleared her throat again, and he set her down before taking his seat again. He placed the goblet on the side table to his right.

“You could have just undone the bindings,” she sulked, her voice still a little rough as she gestured to her still restrained arms, nose crinkling in distaste.

“Where would the fun be in that?” he jibed, enjoying her discomfort, to which she rolled her eyes at him. His smile widened, she was a delightful little thing, wasn’t she?

“What did you mean by ‘all this time’?” she asked, alluding back to her previous confusion. He cocked his head to the side, regarding her with thinly veiled amusement.

“How long do you think you’ve been asleep?” he asked instead, innocently. He saw a panic flash in her eyes before it was gone.

“It couldn’t have been more than a couple of days,” she said, though not with confidence, gauging his expression for clues. He could gleefully lead her in circles all day, but alas, he probably didn’t have all day, as a mediwitch was due to check on her soon.

“The date is December 5th, 1943.” He struggled to hold in his humour as she gaped, dread flashing in her eyes. He almost kicked himself for not taking the opportunity to say 1944, he was sure her reaction would have been of epic proportions. He wasn’t disappointed, anyhow.

“You’re lying!” she exclaimed.

“I am not,” he breezed, reaching out to grab her chart hanging off the end of her bed to show her the date, knowing now that she would probably never take his word at face value.

“I am so behind! How am I ever going to catch up?!” she whined, miserably. He shot his eyebrows up, incredulous of her priorities. That’s what she was worried about? Not the fact that someone had purposely cursed her to live a nightmarish hellscape? One of which she was STILL restrained by the arms for?

He barked out a laugh, throwing his head back, and attempting to stifle his chuckles with his hand.

“What!?” she snapped as he wiped a tear from his eye.

“You’re ridiculous,” he replied, watching her bristle, fury lighting her eyes.

“Excuse me!? This is our NEWT year, our whole careers depend on scoring, to receive proper apprenticeships, to further a path to mastery!” she ranted, accent growing stronger as she went, moving her restrained arms in an attempt to get her point across. This made him realize that she really did talk with her hands a lot, and he just hadn’t noticed until she didn’t have her hands available.

“Do you not think the professors will allow an exception considering you were cursed?” he humoured her, curious to her mental process. He watched her warm brown eyes darken furiously and wondered what he’d said that incensed her so.

“What do you care?! You’re probably the one responsible for me being here!” she snapped at him viciously, and at that moment all his humour was gone. The previously open door to her room swung shut and he was up, and with one hand he pushed down on her restrained arms. She squirmed and gasped as he applied his own weight downwards, but not enough to endanger her ribs, the pressure he placed would bruise her, at best, and the thought filled him with satisfaction.

“I’ve put up with this behaviour of yours because it was amusing at first, but I warn you now, I will not stand for your disrespect,” he warned in a low voice, causing her to freeze, though not in fear.

“You have to earn respect,” she choked out, glaring at him, and so he placed more pressure.

“Ah, I don’t think so,” he replied lightly, completely unruffled by her cries.

“Do you understand?” he asked condescendingly, to which she gave a terse nod, tears prickling the corners of her eyes. He wiped at them with his thumbs, having released her arms.

“Good,” he cooed, gently. She turned her head away, intent on ignoring him. He sighed, grabbing his book and straightening his robes.

“I will go find your healer to inform them you’ve awoken, behave until then,” he chided her, seeing the side of her cheek flush in irritation, while she continued to pretend she couldn’t hear him.

It was in that room that he came to a monumental conclusion, he understood now that he wanted her near him, though in what capacity, he was unsure. Breaking her in would definitely take a delicate hand, but he was prepared all the same. He was not a person who entertained rebelliousness, from anyone around him, and as a Riddle, she would be around him whether she liked it or not.

He snorted, eyeing her once more, before leaving the room.

  
‘This is a start, at least.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m honestly not used to writing long chapters cause my attention span is non-existent, but i hope you enjoyed this one. 
> 
> sorry if it was triggering to anyone, if there’s anything questionable in a chapter, i’ll write it in bold at the beginning of the chapter to forward you.


	10. Chapter 9 - The Great Slap

Hogwarts - Chapter 9 - December 7th, 1943

After her hellish wake-up, restrained in a hospital bed with only Tom Riddle for company, Hermione was given the clear to return to school a day later. The first thing she did that Monday afternoon was march her way to Professor Dumbledore’s office to hopefully come up with a plan to salvage her semester. She didn’t bother bringing up Tom’s less than stellar behaviour, she could deal with him herself. Fortunately, though, Tom was right, and Dumbledore had all assignments packaged together neatly for her with copies of notes, donated by various Gryffindors. She noticed three identical packages beside hers and raised a questioning glance to her head of house.

“I am afraid Miss. Dubois, Mr. Thomas, and Mr. Laurent have not woken up yet,” he explained. Hermione gaped, she’d been under the impression that she had been the only one cursed, her theory of Tom being responsible going out the window. This wasn’t just an attack on her, but an attack on all the nouveau-sang transfers, and a few of Hogwarts on muggleborns, if Dean was also hit.

“Who did this?” she asked, eyes burning and an indescribable burn twisting in her belly.

“Those responsible have already been apprehended and punished accordingly,” Dumbledore answered, but not really answering her, his blue eyes empathetic. She nodded, knowing that she wouldn’t receive any answers from him, and asked to be excused.

  
The reception she received upon arriving back at Gryffindor tower had made her tear up a little bit. On top of being smothered in hugs by Ron, Ginny and Harry, she had also been welcomed back by the few of her roommates she hadn’t really spoken to since arriving at Hogwarts, and even Minerva, the head girl, warmed her normally strict and sarcastic personality to express her relief for her well being. Apparently, since “The Big Hex” which is what the school was calling the incident, the Gryffindors created patrols that would ensure no muggleborn would have to walk alone in between classes.

It was later that night in the girl’s dorm, Ginny and a few sixth year girls had snuck in to hang out in the seventh year dorm, that Hermione finally began to feel okay. The remnants of her nightmares were less intrusive towards the forefront of her thoughts. Lavender sat behind Hermione, skillfully arranging her newly washed hair into twists, a thin layer of Sleekeazy’s hair potion coating her hands as she did so. She appraised Lavender, her dark skin and kinky black curls, already wrapped up in her bonnet, she believed her to be one of the sweetest individuals she’d ever met. Hermione had shamefully written her off at the beginning of the year, deciding it for the best due to their lack of shared interests. She regretted that now, her semester so far at Hogwarts (previous month notwithstanding) has taught her that she didn’t need to have a roster of shared hobbies or interests to be friends with someone.

Her friendship with Ron, Ginny, Harry and Géraldine, though rather new, had been her biggest clue to that, she shared almost no interests with any of them, but they have become her friends all the same.

All the girls that night gossiped, played games, and talked about crushes and relationships. Ginny took being teased about her relationship with Harry like a champ, it had made Hermione think of Ron briefly, and she couldn’t contain the ridiculous smile that bloomed on her face, hoping she didn’t get teased for it. She didn’t even know if he liked her back, he was so laid back and friendly, wearing his heart on his sleeve, that it was hard to tell if he treated her differently than anybody else.

The last time she had a crush this monumental, she had been in fourth year back at Beauxbatons, and she’d believed herself absolutely in love with an upperclassman named Gaspard. He had been a quidditch player and a fellow book lover, he had always been kind to her in the library, so Hermione had rightfully developed a crush. He graduated the next year, and Hermione never saw him again, but she still remembers that year fondly, though with a hint of mortification. She was interrupted from her thoughts by one of the girls addressing her.

“Speaking of good looking boys,” Romilda Vane, a sixth year Gryffindor Hermione recently became acquainted with, started.

“I heard Tom Riddle visited you every Sunday in St. Mungos.” she gave a suggestive smirk, wiggling her eyebrows. Hermione, sipping from a glass of firewhiskey, courtesy of Lavender, who snatched it from Cormac McLaggen’s stash, had inhaled her sip and instantly began choking, her throat on fire.

“I mean you already share a last name,” joked Sophie Roper, another of her roommates, in a teasing tone, while Hermione continued to hack up a lung.

“He’s my cousin!” she finally exclaimed, face aflame.

“Really?!” asked Romilda, interest colouring her expression.

“How close of a relation are we talking? Like first cousins? Because then that would be awkward,” she mused, curling a strand of her long dark hair around her finger before continuing, “anything after second cousins is usually okay though.” she shrugged delicately.

Hermione gaped at her.

“Shouldn’t any kind of cousin generally be off-limits?” she asked, genuinely disturbed at the direction of the conversation.

“Well, you’re muggleborn, it would seem strange to you,” she answered, slightly miffed.

“What she means,” Ginny began, glaring at Romilda, “is that for such the small group of countries that make up the isles, and with pressurized importance placed on blood purity, marrying second or third cousins is pretty much the norm,” she explained, while braiding her long red hair.

“Obviously, not everyone feels the same, and most prefer not to get into relationships with relatives, but it is still a practice that exists,” she finished, weaving the final bits of hair together. Hermione was almost envious of how sleek and shiny it was.

“I see.” Hermione did not see, but she wanted to change the subject desperately. She knew just the thing to ask, and though she hadn’t wanted to ruin the camaraderie between them all, now was just as good a time as ever to suss out some information.

“Do any of you know who specifically was behind ‘The Big Hex’?” she asked, and all the girls went silent. Ginny chewed her lip before answering.

“Apparently Draco Malfoy, who is in my year, took the fall for it, but with so many muggleborns hit, everyone knows that it had to be a group effort.” she sighed, defeated.

“I see.” and this time she did, though she decided to stow that information away for when she needed it.

“And what happened to Draco Malfoy?” she asked, curious as to his punishment. All the girls looked enraged but it was Parvati who answered.

“He was suspended for two weeks, and the Malfoy family had to pay for the treatment of each muggleborn affected, but considering how obscenely wealthy the family is, that’s pocket change for them.”

“So, a slap on the wrist then,” Hermione muttered, to which Lavender snorted from behind her, finishing up the last twist in her hair.

“Done!” she chirped, almost clapping her hands before realizing they were still coated with sleekeazys. Hermione pointed her wand and whispered a _scourgify_ , cleaning them. Lavender beamed before hopping off Hermione’s bed and launching herself onto Parvati’s, who proceeded to playfully smack her with a pillow.

“Which one is Draco Malfoy?” Hermione asked, realizing she couldn’t put a face to a name.

“The blonde, pointy looking fellow,” joked Ginny.

“He’s also Abraxas’s younger brother, he’s in our year,” explained Sophie, to which Hermione nodded, vaguely recalling the spectre that hung off of Tom’s side. She vaguely remembered passing by someone like that the day she was cursed, but wasn’t sure if her mind was making up memories or not. She decided to let it go, for now. She abandoned her drink, throat still burning from earlier and began wrapping her hair in her satin scarf.

The rest of the girls retired soon after, they did have class in the morning, after all.

It had been a generally uneventful day, Hermione worked and studied in between classes to catch up for the month she’d missed. She was so grateful, looking through her notes, noting that almost every class was from a different Gryffindor. Seamus had comprehensive notes on Charms and Magical Theory, while Neville covered Alchemy. Ron donated his notes on Ancient Runes and Muggle Studies, and Harry, his Defence notes. Parvati covered her History of Magic notes, while Lavender gave Potions and Wizarding Studies. Cormac pitched his Transfiguration notes her way, and finally Sophie volunteered her Arithmancy notes. It was such an earnest group effort and it warmed Hermione’s heart. They were essentially outsiders, the transfers, but Gryffindor house had accepted them into their fold with no questions.

She was currently waiting for Muggle Studies class to start, taught by Professor Watson, a short dark-skinned witch who always had her hair in intricate cornrows, and who spoke with a strong cockney accent. Hermione sat on the windowsill outside the classroom with Ron, she was reviewing notes for the class from the last month, while Ron lazily watched groups of students mingling about and passing by when it happened. A group of seventh year Slytherins, flanking Tom Riddle, probably on their way to their next class, passed by. Hermione barely glanced up at them, still personally angry at Tom and determined to ignore his existence as long a humanly possible, when one of them, the blonde one, stopped and addressed her.

“Miss. Granger-Riddle, sweet dreams, I hope,” he drawled, she saw in her peripheral Tom stop at that, turning to observe. She looked up to find a smug expression on the blonde boy’s, ‘Abraxas Malfoy,’ her mind supplied, face. She thought briefly of her nightmares, mind freezing on the particular one of her papa, she cocked her head to the side, regarding him coolly. After a moment, she neatly placed her notes beside her and got up, stepping up towards him.

“Hermione?” she heard Ron call, to which she ignored. She stopped in front of Abraxas Malfoy, other students around them stopping to watch.

She observed his face for a beat. He was pale with a pointed nose and chin, bright blue eyes and a haughty expression that you simply couldn’t fake. Hermione squinted at him, as if confused, before rearing her arm across her body as fast as she could and backhanding him across the face with all of her strength.

He stumbled back, palming his cheek, which began to bloom a brilliant red against his white skin. She heard gasps from the surrounding students and a guffaw from Ron behind her, but she was still. The rest of Tom’s friends and Abraxas, who had regained his composure, stared at her almost incredulously; while Tom’s own expression was inscrutable. She only regarded them with a sneer before turning and walking back to Ron, who was trying his best to wipe tears of laughter.

She primly picked up her notes, sat down and continued reviewing, effectively ignoring the Slytherin posse. They sauntered off soon after, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see Ron’s shoulders relax. She gave him a soft smile, which he returned.

“That,” he began, huffing out a laugh, “was brilliant.” he ran a hand through his hair, face still flushed from laughing. In return, her face felt hot, embarrassed at how much she wanted to run her own hand through his hair, Hermione briefly cursed this crush of hers.

“Thank you,” she replied, heart fluttering. It was the best she’s felt in months.

It was after Muggle Studies, that she was approached by another student, she was dark-skinned with her hair styled into locs held back with a green ribbon. She surprised Hermione by holding her hand out to shake, congratulating her on her strong arm, before promptly leaving, leaving Hermione wondering what exactly just happened.

Ron whistled, having been the only one who caught the brief interaction, as everyone else had been distracted with exiting the classroom.

“That was Shacklebolt, I’m surprised she didn’t write you up for violence against another student, especially since that student is from her house.”

“She’s a Slytherin? But this is Muggle Studies,” Hermione voiced, confused. To which Ron shrugged, but answered.

“Who knows, maybe getting a Muggle Studies NEWT will help her with whatever career path she’s chosen,” he said, lifting Hermione’s bag onto his shoulders, despite her protests.

“I heard her uncle is an Auror who works in close liaison with the muggle Royal family, though that could be a rumour, that kind of information is usually right classified.” He finished, and Hermione nodded appreciatively.

“Wait, isn’t there a professor here that goes by Shacklebolt too?” she asked.

“Oh yeah, Professor Shacklebolt teaches Astronomy,” he answered, “I think he’s her older brother? Big age gap, like 12 years or something,” he mused, shrugging again.

They headed their way to charms, looking forward to meeting more of their housemates. It was the one downside to Muggle Studies since not many students decided to take it at the NEWT level, the class was a mashup of all the houses, she and Ron were the only Gryffindors enrolled. She didn’t think it was very fair, because, on the opposite, Wizarding Studies was mandatory. She found it sad that not many magicals cared for their non-magical counterparts here on the isles, they were still people and they still deserved basic respect and common decency. Hermione found that she enjoyed her Muggle Studies class because she adored her professor.

Professor Watson had to be the funniest person she was sure she’d ever met. Her sense of humour was dry and mostly sarcastic, but it made the class fun. This was also saying something because Hermione had been told countless times in her life that her sense of humour was non-existent. What Professor Watson did that made her class such a joy, was that she bantered with students, telling jokes, and she always made sure everyone was engaged. It was a stark difference from her Wizarding Studies class, which though fascinating, was rather dull, Professor Burke was quite strict, and had a very condescending air to her that just rubbed Hermione the wrong way.

Beauxbatons had not had either class, so much as they had a Cultural Humanities class that covered both magical and non-magical cultures around the world. When Hermione had transferred, she was automatically enrolled in both Wizarding and Muggle studies, making her unable to take Magical Law, which she had been taking back at her previous school. She’d already decided though, that once she graduated, she would try to take the Magical Law NEWT independently, despite not being positive she’d even be staying in Britain once both wars ended if they did anytime soon.

They arrived in the Charms hallway as Seamus ran up behind them and threw an arm around both of their shoulders. Though Ron being quite tall, Seamus only got his forearm over.

“I heard a rumour you slapped Malfoy, Hermione, please tell me this is true,” he pleaded, turning his head to give her the biggest cow eyes she’d ever seen.

“She did! It was wicked! You should have seen it, mate, made my whole year,” Ron gushed in return, while Hermione dragged her hands over her face in embarrassment, not used to the attention.

“Oh no, please don’t tell me the whole school knows,” she whined, frantic. She didn’t regret her actions, she just didn’t know how to deal with the attention.

“You bet it did, but honestly, Hermione, thank you. Dean would have loved to have witnessed it.” Seamus’s expression turned sad, she put her arm over his shoulders in comfort.

“He’ll wake up soon, I’m sure of it,” she told him, sympathetically. After all, if she could fight the curse, then all of the other muggleborns could as well. Seamus smiled in return, before launching himself off into the classroom.

She thought of her actions spreading throughout the entire school and cringed, she could only imagine the faculty owling her maman, notifying her that her daughter assaulted another student. She groaned. She could only imagine how that conversation would go, not to mention with Tom joining for Christmas. She cringed again, not particularly looking forward to the winter break, especially after his behaviour in her hospital room, she absentmindedly rubbed the bruise on her chest that she’d forgotten to get healed, she would have to make sure to stop by the Hospital Wing for bruise paste after class.

A slew of Gryffindors joined them, they were all discussing ‘The Great Slap’ as Ron took to calling it, in direct retaliation of ‘The Big Hex’. He was offering up his memory of the event if someone supplied the pensieve. Hermione, exasperated, let them have their fun, turning her attention to Professor MacMillan who was beginning to start her lecture.

It wasn’t all bad, she supposed, after all, slapping Malfoy HAD felt good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for real tho, would hermione really be hermione if she didn’t slap a malfoy?
> 
> i didn’t think so either.
> 
> also, watched birds of prey, what a great movie, i think im gonna watch it again.
> 
> hope you guys enjoy the chapter.


	11. Chapter 10 - Slug Gala

**There be-ith smut at the end of this chapter.**

Chapter 10 - Slytherin Dorms - December 17th, 1943  
  


Tom straightened his dress robes in the mirror, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves, they were gift robes that Abraxas insisted on getting him. To the outside eye it would seem the boy was far too concerned with his outward image, and that of his friends, but Tom knew better. If Abraxas wanted to dress him, like a fretting husband, then he had no issue obliging him. The robes were long, made of the finest acromantula silk, tailored to fit his body. They were decorated with ornate buttons that went to the floor, each button carved with the side profile of a basilisk, which Tom thought to be rather appropriate.

On his hands he only had the Gaunt ring, shining with its unusual black stone, his Horcrux, and at last, around his neck, under his robes, he had Slytherin’s locket. A Yule gift from Orion, who had sent his old elf Kreacher, into every shop to look for it. When Tom had visited his deranged uncle Morfin, moments before killing his disgusting father and grandparents, he had spoken of the locket, how he believed his slag of a sister, Tom’s mother, had lost it after dying like a filthy muggle.

At first, Tom had thought Morfin to have gone around the bend, but then considered, as the only direct surviving line of Salazar Slytherin, at least in the isles, the chances of there being a locket were high. He had informed Orion as such, who had, in turn, sent his elf. The elf had found it being sold at Borgin & Burkes for an outrageously high price, one which Orion had no qualms of paying, and now, it rested where it belonged. Tom had already decided that it would be his next Horcrux, he just needed the right death for it, as he refused to tear his soul for someone unimportant. Not to mention, that it would be prudent to wait until he had graduated, his movements restricted as they were, being a student.

Tonight was Slughorn’s Yule Gala, and as apart of his ‘Slug Club’, Tom was fully expected to show. He was hardly inconvenienced, as it gave him the opportunity to network many influential people. It was only nigh six months more until he could claim the Slytherin Lordship, and he’d had already a solid base of supporters. He understood that a lot of his continued success this year was due to Orion, who although was as knowledgeable as the rest of his knights, he was the most pragmatic, understanding without being told that Tom needed more guidance than what was offered in Wizarding Studies because he knew that if Tom succeeded than his own goals were that much easier to obtain.

Tom had asked him back in year five on why earlier Gaunts had not claimed the Slytherin seat. He had replied that earlier Gaunts had thought themselves more superior than even the most rigid Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblooded families. Orion carefully told him that the Gaunts led themselves to their own ruin by marrying within their own family and squandering their wealth, so obsessed were they with their own genealogy. He warned Tom not to do as they did, for it was more than simply blood that would allow him to claim the Slytherin seat, it was his political support that would both win, and allow for him to keep it.

It was a political gamble for anyone to be able to claim a founder's seat, as it held the highest amount of voting power in the caucus, so prospective claimants needed to be voted into the seat by the majority. This is what Tom had been working towards since he found out, letting the constraints calm his natural tendencies that leaned towards violence.

His main circle of knights were in Slytherin, but he had made sure to lure in supporters from all other houses as well. He had every family, aside from a handful of light families, from the Sacred Twenty-Eight backing his claim, most notably the Blacks, Malfoys, Lestranges, Rosiers, and Notts, and a smattering of smaller non-twenty-eight families, even having those of the neutral faction paying close attention.

He’d had to admit that he had Grindelwald to thank for that, who had revealed to the magical world in France of 1927, of a Second World War that would be started by the muggles; and if there was anything the standard pureblood was wary of, was the idea of any muggle having any sort of power. His supposed campaign allowed for them to lean fully on their own already preconceived notions and distrust of muggles, however incorrect, and Tom was an opportunist before all else, so this suited him just fine.

He was no fool, however, he knew he was young and inexperienced, he also knew the risks of creating what was essentially a dark faction. Especially if Dumbledore came to cross wands with Grindelwald and win. He had every intention of playing it all safe, and slow. He’d have the name soon, the prestige of his bloodline and he was in it for the long play.

He gave himself a glance in the mirror once more, before heading out to await Bellatrix in the common room. Outlining in his head how the night would go, down to every detail, and then tomorrow he would deal with a whole other complication.

The Hogwarts Express left at eleven o'clock for the winter hols and Tom almost didn’t want to admit it himself, but he was looking forward to it. Hermione had gotten bold in the last month since waking up, he could attest to it, as watching her had become a guilty pleasure of his. Especially thinking back to her striking Abraxas, he’d said nothing, but that had certainly been a treat.

‘The Great Slap,’ he scoffed, supremely amused.

Abraxas was still nursing a wounded ego, though it probably hadn’t helped that Antonin reminded him of it daily, being the agent of chaos that he was. He had spent the betterment of the last two weeks decrying Hermione’s existence, insulting her behind her back, and attempting to hex her discreetly in the hallways, which had always been met with a non-verbal protego. That had especially interested him, how she now always seemed to be ready to deal with any type of threat. Except him, of course, and he knew she considered him a threat, she had simply taken to ignoring his existence altogether. That would end tomorrow, of course, despite the size of Riddle Manor, with the right charm, she would have nowhere to hide.

Bella descended from the girl’s dormitory and he was not disappointed, for she made a lovely image. She was tall and elegant, with pale skin and long smooth black hair that fell over one exposed shoulder. Her robes were a Slytherin green, undoubtedly expensive and made of the finest silks, which was pinched at her waist with a broach that displayed the Black family crest.

Clearly she was projecting, choosing such a colour, and Tom knew it, because he knew everything about his knights, Bella being one of them. He knew she was delaying her engagement to the twenty-five-year-old Rudolphous Lestrange, waiting to see if he would actually seize the Slytherin seat. Tom scoffed mentally as if he would deign to marry when he had no need to secure his line. Heirs were the symbol of death to a wizard, to pass on the torch, so to speak, and he had no intention of dying at all.

He would let her dream a little bit longer though, taking her hand and placing it within the crook of his arm. After all, it wouldn’t do to ruin his chances of a good shag later. He leads her out of the common room and began the journey to one of Hogwarts event rooms, the gala being held at the one nearest to the dungeons. Hogwarts had these small ballrooms sparingly throughout the castle, they generally fell out of use as times progressed, nowadays only one of them getting to shine once a year for Slughorn’s Yule Gala. They entered the event room, sparingly taking a glance at the decorations, and satisfied that they were quite tasteful, he mentally congratulated Slughorn on whoever he’d managed to guilt into the job.

He saw Thoros, and on his arm was the lovely Hyacinth Greengrass, another Slytherin seventh year. Though Tom knew he was less interested in her than he was of Graham Montague, one of his other knights. If Thoros ever managed to marry a woman and beget an heir, then Tom would be out of ten galleons owed to Antonin. He turned to find Evan approaching them with Aleena Shafiq, looking quite the beauty with her silk periwinkle hijab matching her robes, she was a sixth year Slytherin, as well as the daughter of Professor Akeem Shafiq, who taught Alchemy. Tom’s eyebrows raised at the choice, impressed with the utter bollocks his friend displayed, taking the most notoriously imitating professor's daughter as a date, Evan looked smug at having pulled it off.

Abraxas came upon them soon after, alone, not bothering with a date, and though Tom did not return his affections, he still found he cared a great deal for his knight. Abraxas was set to marry a pureblooded French girl still ten years his junior, and Tom knew how much he was not looking forward to that. Perhaps when their faction succeeded, they could see about getting rid of the engagement, after all, the Malfoys still had their spare in Draco, might as well use him.

He was about to ask where Orion was, when he walked up to them with sixth year Nina Fawley on his arm, looking every bit a prince. Despite Abraxas’s attentions, it was Orion who truly made Tom question a few times through the years, his own sexual preference. The boy was of average height, and of small build, with lightly curled jet black hair that was artfully tussled which contrasted nicely against his pale skin. His features displayed his Japanese ethnicity, but his silver eye colour undeniably declared him the heir of the Black family. He was a boy of little words, always preferring to observe and when he did speak, it was usually of critical information that everyone else, Tom included, missed. His robes were of a plum colour, tailored to fit his slim shape, and like Bellatrix, the crest of the Black family pinned proudly upon his chest.

The project for the Knights tonight was to engage any and all big players that had been invited, Tom had managed to shmooze the guest list from Slughorn, claiming the need to be prepared to win them over for his future, to which Slughorn was all too happy to oblige him. Each Knight had a target for the night to win over, in which Tom would be on the prowl, inserting himself into those conversations.

An elf dressed in clean robes had a tray of champagne, which Tom grabbed two and handed one to Bellatrix. Tonight, she was a lovely arm decoration, anywhere else, she was an effective blunt weapon, her capability for cruelty almost matching his own.

He raised his glass to her in salute and took a sip. His eyes wandered over her shoulder to be momentarily stunned to see Hermione walk in on the arm of Cormac McLaggen, and looking none too pleased about it, he wondered the story behind this decision, he had been positive that she was with Weasley; and as much as he disliked it, Weasley was still preferable to McLaggen, who was no better than a drunken braggart. Tom had never personally tried to recruit McLaggen, as powerful as his family was, they were notoriously bull-headed, and indecisive on their values, and he had no need of such ambiguous support.

He studied Hermione discreetly, taking another sip of his champagne, leading Bellatrix for a stroll around the room. She was in low-cut lilac robes, that displayed her collar and almost bare shoulders. They looked they were being held up at her the sides of her upper arms with a sticking charm, with a cape and skirt that draped down to her feet and the front fabric being twisted to accentuate the figure. It was possibly the most suggestive article of clothing he’d ever witnessed her wear. She was bare of any jewelry, save for white pearls in her ears, and her normally substantial hair was in a sleek bun, showcasing her slender neck.

He had a fleeting desire to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze, but brushed it off and turned back to Bella, who had apparently caught sight of Hermione and was regarding her with disdain.

“The audacity of a mudblood to show herself here, as if she were equal to us,” she murmured lowly in his ear, he chuckled, playing along.

“She's equal enough for McLaggen,” he said, enjoying this excuse to watch her openly. Bella snorted.

“Oh please, any living thing with legs and quim is enough for McLaggen, wait, do you think she’ll shag him later?” he gripped his glass briefly, really not liking the idea of it, before wrestling his reaction back behind his mental shields.

“What do you think?” he asked her, she stared up at him incredulously and he wiggled his eyebrows at her, she let out a disbelieving laugh.

“I don’t think so, she seems too prudish,” she answered, taking a sip of her champagne, “but then again, you never know, aren’t the assumed prudes the ones with the dirtiest minds?” She continued jokingly soon after.

“Though I suppose we’ll find out tomorrow, McLaggen has never been shy of spreading news of his conquests around the school, he wouldn’t want to hide that he tamed ‘The Great Slapper’,” she finished,chortling, before leading him away to Terence Higgs, who had signalled them, as he was currently chatting up Tiberius Ogden.

The night went generally like so, he chatted up and flattered important guests around the room with the help of his knights, and everything had gone exactly to plan. Bella had revelled on his arm, acting every inch his lady she considered herself to be. At one point, he caught sight of McLaggen offering Hermione a drink and purposely turned his gaze away. He couldn’t afford to be distracted tonight.

It was after the party had ended, somewhere near midnight, that he and Bella had left and began heading back towards the Slytherin common room, where the house was throwing an after-party. They were almost there, when he heard shuffling, and the scuffing of shoes. Tom sighed through his nose, he really didn’t want to deal with some randy teenagers right now, he was ready to ignore it altogetheruntil he heard it, so soft, that he’d almost missed it.

“Arrêt,” a voice slurred, a voice and accent he recognized.

He considered for a second whether to ignore it, but the idea of Hermione being shagged by McLaggen nauseated him enough to make up his mind. He directed Bella to head onward to the common room ahead of him while he took care of whatever it was, and that he’d be right behind her. She was still slightly tipsy from the gala so she left without a fuss. Only when she was gone did he pull out his wand.

“Point me,” he murmured, following the lead towards one of the more discreet hallways of the dungeons, it was pitch black but he saw a glimmer of something eye level, and remembered that she’d had on pearl earrings.

“Lumos.” the hallway lit, revealing them to him.

She was there, pushed against the wall, head leaned back, face slack and eyes fluttering. McLaggen was practically engulfing her small frame like the parasite he was, one arm around her waist holding her up against him, his size pushing her against the wall. His other hand gripping her thigh, lifting it up around his waist, revealing a nude stocking held up by a garter belt, unsurprisingly also nude in colour.

“Oi! Riddle, a little privacy?” McLaggen joked, just noticing him. It was that moment that Hermione reached up and sluggishly tried to push him away, failing miserably before her arm fell to her side, slack. It was then that Tom knew something was wrong, he’d seen her arm strength himself, had to hear Abraxas complain about it for weeks, and this was nowhere close to it. She was either inebriated, or befuddled, and he bet his galleons it was the later.

Her head lolled to the side, confirming his suspicions.

“It seems Miss. Granger-Riddle has changed her mind, it must sting to have your date fall asleep on you,” he joked affably, taking on a nonchalant stance, hands behind his back after he’d lit the torch beside him.

“Oh she’s just had a slight bit too much to drink, don’t you worry, I’ll get her back to Gryffindor tower in one piece,” McLaggen replied, looking irritated.

‘A bit too much befuddlement draught to drink, I think you mean,’ he mentally chided but didn’t voice. He didn’t need McLaggen getting belligerent with Hermione hardly being able to stand. He clucked his tongue derisively. 

“Unfortunately, as head boy, it is my personal responsibility to make sure she is seen to the Hospital Wing, especially considering that she’s had too much to drink, and is not of the right mind to consent to your advances either way,” he explained, his amiable act officially dropped.

“You would not want me to inform your head of house of this behaviour, would you?” he threatened lightly. McLaggen scoffed, annoyed, before all but throwing Hermione at him, bustling passed Tom as he caught her.

“Fine, you want her so bad? She’s all yours, she won’t shag you though, that witch is closed off tighter than Azkaban,” he snapped and stalked off.

“Fifty points from Gryffindor,” he chirped at McLaggen’s back, satisfied when he heard cursing.

Hermione was leaning on him, completely out, her head was buried in the crook of his neck, her breath softly tickling his jaw. He took a long steady breath before adjusting her to pick her up properly, not bothering with a weightless charm, and started off towards the hospital wing.

Befuddlement droughts in their honest brewed state did not usually cause their drinker to comatose, not unless it was mixed with an alcohol of over fifty percent potency, which the gala had none of. This meant that McLaggen knew exactly what he had been doing, planned for it even, going so far as to smuggle in the appropriate spirit and befuddlement draught to aid him.

“Look at the trouble you get yourself into,” he whispered, glancing down at her, noting a tiny curl had fought its way out of her sleek bun and had settled against her forehead. He was tempted to free all of it but restrained himself.

Once arriving at the hospital wing, he knocked before entering, alerting Madam Pomfrey of his entry. She bustled over, tsking all the way, as she directed him towards one of the beds and instructed him to lay her down. He did, only then noticing the dark bruising along the line of her neck, his breath shuddered. He almost swept his fingers over them had Madam Pomfrey not spoken then, reminding him of her presence, he straightened immediately, giving the mediwitch his attention.

“What happened to her?” she asked, waving her wand over Hermione to take her vitals.

“I caught her date attempting to take advantage of her, I surmise that she’s been given a befuddlement draught mixed with potent alcohol,” he gave his report calmly, though he could feel his heart beating in his chest rapidly.

Madam Pomfrey hummed, thanking him before dismissing him, and Tom didn’t need to be told twice, as he was out of there faster than an escaped Zouwu.

On his way back to the Slytherin Common Room, his mind raced, throwing images in front of his minds eye. Her slender neck, and the low cut robes she wore, her stocking-clad leg in such a lewd position, her throat covered in bruises. He shuddered as he felt the ghost of her breath on his jaw, and the weight of her as he carried her. He cursed, wondering how she was doing this to him, had she potioned him? He dismissed the idea, surely he would have noticed, and even if she did, to what purpose?  
  
He entered the common room, pulling a mask over his earlier perturbed musings. Sauntering up to the couches, Antonin whistled at him, offering him a shot glass of what he assumed was vodka. Tom sat down and knocked it back, hoping it would calm his jitters and held his glass out for another, to which Antonin obliged with grin, offering the other knights one each for salutations, and though none of them looked thrilled, they all followed their leader’s example. Tom didn’t blame them, vodka tasted like rubbish, but Antonin had an unending stash of the stuff all the same.

Bella was practically stumbling when she got up from the couch before she threw herself down onto his lap, half of him was tempted to throw her off, his skin feeling itchy. She leaned down and kissed his jaw, before moving down his neck. Clearly, it was an itch that needed to be scratched because her attentions got exactly the reaction she wanted, he stood up, arm around her waist to steady her. He inclined his head to his knights, ignoring that Abraxas was essentially glaring into his drink, before escorting Bella to his personal room in the Slytherin dorms, a perk to being head boy, so that he could come and go as he pleased.

They entered the room, where he immediately silenced the room and locked the door, as soon as he threw his wand to the floor, she was on him. He tangled a hand in her hair to hold her head, biting at her lips, asking for entrance, to which she enthusiastically consented. His other hand trailed up to the broach on her waist, he ripped it off and tossed it to the side. His lips went to her jaw, while he brought both his hands up to her throat, pausing for a moment to squeeze, before then skirting one of his hands over her shoulder, the other to her breast. He pressed fervent kisses along her jaw while he gently teased a nipple through the fabric, before pinching the silk both beneath her breast and at her shoulder and yanking them down, allowing it all to pool at her feet.

He stepped back to look at her, to find her completely bare. He licked his lips and raised an eyebrow incredulously at her, to which she only smiled coyly. He began to undo the buttons of his own robes, and when she reached for him, he slapped her hands away.

“Ah, ah,” he began, throwing his robes behind him on the floor, “on your knees now,” he ordered softly, to which she rushed to obey. He noticed her grinding her hips against her own heel in anticipation and shot her a grin.

He pulled himself free, kicking his undergarments down his legs and off to the side.

“Come here,” he directed, voice soft, and she heeded him, her usual silver eyes were black with lust.

“Open your mouth,” she eagerly did so, taking him in, her tongue languishing across his head, while one of her hands came up to grasp his shaft. Slowly she began to bob her head and stroke her hand, taking him all the way down her throat, bringing her nose to the hair at his pelvis. She continued like that, before bringing her other hand up to caress his balls.

He hissed a sharp breath and closed his eyes.

 _§ Yesss, there we go, §_ he hissed, momentarily slipping into parseltongue.

She kept going until he grasped the sides of her head, and began slamming his hips against her face, while she gurgled and gagged on him. He thought she was so lovely, with her makeup smeared like that, his mind foggy with his rising orgasm as he continued to fuck her face. She glanced up at him, and for a split second, he imagined brown skin and eyes instead of pale and grey. Big lips instead of Bella’s dainty ones around his cock. He picked up his speed, Bella holding onto his legs, digging her nails into the back of his thighs. The sounds she made were obscene, and he imagined once more that they were coming from someone else. He came exactly then, lodging himself down her throat, forcing her to swallow every last bit of his cum. He finally pulled himself out, Bella falling to her hands coughing, and wiping the tears from her face and excess seed and spittle from her mouth and chin.

He held a hand out to her, helping her stand. He gently kissed her mouth, whispering soft praises, before promptly pushing her onto the bed, he nudged her legs open and kneeled himself down between them. After all, let it not be said that he wasn’t fair when the moment called for it. She gasped as he went in, pressing his nose against her clit, the surrounding hair tickling his nostrils, while his tongue worked frantically at her lips. He curled two fingers into her and began to massage her walls. She bucked her hips, crying out, but his other hand held her down, he jerked his face and applied more pressure on her nub. Her hands flew into his hair and she scratched at his scalp, as he entered a third finger. It was soon after that he felt her legs begin to tremble on either side of his head while he built her up, and it was only a moment later when she came, doing so with a scream.

An intrusive thought wondered if Hermione would scream, and he found he was hard again at the thought. He nodded at Bella, twirling his finger, indicating for her to get onto the bed fully and onto her knees. Clearly it was going to take more work to abolish the chit from his head. Bella obeyed instantly, movements jerky from her previous orgasm. He climbed up behind her and forced her shoulders and head down against the bed, pulling her arse up in the air. He brushed the head of his cock against her entrance, feeling it was still wet from her earlier release, before he hammered into her, settling at a brutal pace. His hands bruising her hips with his grip, while she scrambled for purchase, fisting her hands into the bedsheets, keening and rocking her hips back to meet him.

She reached under herself to stimulate her clit again as he picked up speed, listening to the cacophony of slapping skin tempered with his own panting, as well as Bella’s gasps and moans. He reached and grabbed a fistful of hair, yanking her head back, causing her to cry out, finding her release again. He came hard soon after, wishing his hand was buried in wild curls instead, he continued thrusting, riding out his orgasm, faintly taking notice of the purple spots on her hips, while Bella panted, spent, beneath him.

He carefully pulled himself out and laid next to her on the bed, panting. He vaguely registered Bella, out of his periphery, reach for her wand and cast the contraceptive charm on herself, but he was too busy with his thoughts. To put it lightly, he was enraged.

“Go,” he ordered, voice low and menacing, she whipped around to stare at him, shocked. He gave her his coldest look, to which she obeyed, pouting all the while as she redressed and left, he honestly couldn’t care less at the moment, she would get over it. He got up and went to his washroom. He gripped the sink, briefly looking at his reflection, before turning on the small shower, setting the temperature to an almost boiling point.

Stepping under the piping hot water, he wondered how she did it. How did she burrow her way so thoroughly into his subconscious? He briefly considered once more that maybe she did potion him, surely he wouldn’t be this fixated on a girl he’d barely known half a year? A mudblood at that.

He recalled the images his mind kept flashing him earlier. Her bruised throat, he exposed leg, and before he knew it he was replacing Bella in his memories of their recent activities with her. He grasped at himself, the hot water doing nothing to prevent his arousal, and he pictured in his mind's eye, her on her knees, looking up at him with tear tracks on her face, his cock in her pretty mouth. Another with his head between her thighs as her nails scraped his scalp, he began to stroke himself, slowly at first. He imagined her on her knees, with her arse meetings his hips, the sound of slapping flesh and her moans filling the room, and he picked up his pace. He imagined her yelp when he fisted his hand in her hair, and yanked her head back, his hand rapidly jerking himself now.

Would she scream? Beg him to stop? Beg him for more? For him to fuck her harder?

At that last thought, he saw white as he came, breathing heavily, he tried to steady himself with one hand against the wall. He stood there for five minutes, hot water still spraying him as he tried to catch his breath, to slow his heartbeat.

He realized he wanted her, simple as that, though at the moment he didn’t think it was anything more than sexual. He thought briefly of how she’d avoided him since the hospital.

He huffed out a laugh, he was sick, because he wanted someone desperately enough to imagine them in lewd positions, someone, who clearly did not want him in return. Would he be any better than McLaggen when he saw her next? He watched the remainder of his cum lazily flow towards the drain.

His laughs subsided, and he ran a hand over his face. There was one thing that he was absolutely certain of.

He was well and truly fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter wasn’t even planned or apart of my original outline, but i felt i needed to flesh out Tom’s relationships with his knights more rather than throwing names around and giving them no personalities. decided to add the bella/tom tag and change the rating to explicit to accommodate.
> 
> as you can tell i have been using the fantastic beasts series for any info on grindelwald’s war, but thats mainly because there isn’t much to pull from book canon in the first place. also sorry for the political info-dump. 
> 
> Unpopuar opinion: if it wasn’t obvious before, i’ll say it now, i DESPISE the HP movies, i hate that steve kloves obliterated everything good about the weasleys and made hermione this perfect infallible princess, who had all of ron’s good lines, that he allowed helena bonham-carter (a real life bamf) to make a mockery of bellatrix, attempted to make snape a hero (see: alan rickman, rip, also a bamf) (tho i suppose thats also jk’s fault) and also depicting draco as this uwu~ boy with no choice uwu~ (i do like draco, i do, but GOD he’s such a weenie)
> 
> also, sorta unrelated, i dislike emma watson (as an actress), i dislike her hermione entirely (tho thats probs cause of kloves's weird fixation on her ((not to mention hermione fan edits where they have to photoshop her with curly hair just send me)) i just can’t watch anything with her in it, but thats because she either underacts or overacts, there is no in-between with her and im still salty that she ruined belle. 
> 
> she's a good person though, even if her activism reeks of white-feminism, she still gotta lot to learn, but she coo'
> 
> coolcoolcoolcoolcool rant over, hope it doesn’t shoot me in the foot 
> 
> hope you all enjoyed the chapter.


	12. Chapter 11 - Was He a Vampire?

**Warning: attempted non-con in this chapter.**

Chapter 11 - Gryffindor Dorms - December 17th, 1943

Hermione turned, admiring herself in the mirror, the Gryffindor girls had really outdone themselves this time. She ran her hand to smooth out the lilac silk, amazed at how well it fit. She pondered back to how she got roped into this scheme tonight, there had been a big party a week prior when Dean Thomas woke up. Seamus had practically been bouncing off the walls, she recalled there being a lot of alcohol, and losing a drinking game, to which she then had to agree to go to Slughorn’s gala with Cormac McLaggen. She wasn’t exactly thrilled about it, because although Cormac seemed nice, and he had helped her out by giving her copies of his transfiguration notes, she found him to be a bit too forward, without much regard for personal space.

Also, she may have agreed because she saw Romilda Vane hanging off of Ron, and she may have been a touch jealous.

‘Ron isn’t even mine! He could fool around with whoever he pleases,’ she thought, huffing to herself. Was she being childish? She couldn’t tell, she had never had an infatuation on someone this close to her before, she didn’t know what standard protocol was for fumbling school crushes.

She bent down towards her nightstand and pulled open the drawer. She grabbed a small box, and although Hermione wasn’t much of a jewellery type or really much of a dress-up person in general, these pearl earrings were her mamie's. Hermione's mother had sent them when she'd written to her explaining her predicament. Piercing them through her ears, and fastening to backings, she considered all the help she had tonight. When she had confessed to her dorm room a week ago that she didn’t have anything for this event, they all sprung into formation.

Lavender and Parvati covered her robes, respectfully staying within her budget and choosing a colour that she liked, within a single night, they had an owl order ready to go with a shrunken bag of galleons headed towards Twilfitt and Tattings, a boutique in Diagon Alley that Hermione hadn't remembered seeing.

Sophie did her makeup, which surprised her as she always seemed so masculine to Hermione, and when she'd asked, Sophie had winked and with a very Northern Irish accent, chirped that she liked making girls look pretty because she liked pretty girls, which promptly caused Hermione’s face to go beat red. Ginny, who had been getting ready right beside Hermione had let out an impressive guffaw.

Hermione thought back to the last two weeks since she’d woken up, they had to have been the most hectic of her academic career to date. On top of the doubled workload that she needed to catch up on, along with her current classes, she’d had to anxiously come to accept that being hexed while her back was turned was something she’d have to account for, especially after “The Big Slap”. So, she approached Harry, who was particularly gifted in Defense and had asked him to help her practice her shields.

What originally started as one on one tutoring became a whole study group as more and more Gryffindors wanted in on it, especially the muggleborns that’d begun to wake up. When the group became too big for the common room, they moved it to a peculiar chamber on the seventh floor across from an unusual tapestry of dancing trolls. They formally named the group ‘The Defense Association’, to which Ginny jokingly renamed ‘Dumbledore’s Army’, that everyone had found quite funny so eventually it stuck. Hermione thought Professor Dumbledore would get a kick out of it if he knew.

So now the group practiced all kinds of spells, some from their own curriculum, and some from Harry’s own roster that he’s learned from his father, who was a senior Auror who worked directly under Head Auror Rufus Scrimgeour. Not to mention he had a slew of both mischievous and slightly illegal spells that he’d gotten from his uncles, Sirius Black-Lupin and Remus Lupin-Black, who were married and both hit-wizards normally contracted by the ICW.

It was due to Dumbledore’s Army that she was able to become more confident in Defense, it had always irked her that she’d gotten an ‘E’ during her fifth year OWLS, rather than an ‘O’ like the rest of her marks. She just wasn’t a spontaneous person, and she was horrible with thinking on her feet. Hermione knew her strengths laid in academia and book smarts, in a fight, she would be toast. It was why she had been hesitant to even take Defense on a NEWT level, however, the wars outside the schools had deemed it necessary, even if she was awful at it. Another upside was that she’d been prepared enough each time someone tried to hex her in the hallways, most of the time she recognized them coming from Abraxas, who she supposed must still be smarting from being smacked.

Hermione desperately wanted to smooth a hand over her hair, she wasn’t used to it being this neat, but she’d already gotten a stinging hex to her pinky finger from Géraldine for trying, she being the one who styled it. Though it had been a bit a two-person job, with close guidance from Lavender on how to work with ethnic hair.

She thought back to how well she’d come to know Géraldine since she became friends with her in September, she’d learned a lot about the often quiet girl. She had learned that Géraldine had grown up in Lyon and that she had been from a large Jewish family. She had learned that in 1941, while attending Beauxbatons, her father, mother and older brother had all been apprehended by the Gestapo and that her three younger sisters, and infant brother, all under the age of ten, had been scattered throughout her neighbourhood, by Catholic neighbours who took them in to hide them. Géraldine herself had been taken in by one of the professors of Beauxbatons when they'd found out, unwilling to send her back to where she’d be in danger of apprehension herself. After the attack in February, they both fled to Britain together, as Professeur Bernard, the wizard who had taken her in, was a Jewish nouveau-sang himself.

She had told Hermione how her mother had been a hairdresser while her father had been a well-known rabbi in their community, that her mother had always had Géraldine by her side, helping her work on clients hair, which was why she offered to do Hermione’s hair. To this day, Géraldine had no idea where her sisters were, of if she’d ever see her parents and older brother alive again; she confessed to Hermione that she had hoped her younger sisters would have magic and that she’d see them in Beauxbatons, and then again when fleeing to Hogwarts, but so far had only been disappointed. She informed Hermione that whether the wars ended sooner or later, that she would keep a lookout for them, and if she could not find them in any schools, she would find them with magic.

They joked together that they’d never gotten on in Beauxbatons, both because Hermione had been too tightly wound and a bit of a menace in her earlier years, which Hermione had to embarrassingly agree with, and that Géraldine herself had been shy, furthermore retreating into herself after 1941, understandably.

She was snapped out of her thoughts by Ginny who had come up behind her and whistled in her ear. She jumped.

“Ready to go? You look fantastic, though too bad it’s wasted on a lout like McLaggen.” her hands were placed on Hermione’s shoulders, and once more she found her face heating up from the close proximity, the scent of Ginny’s perfume making her head fuzzy.

‘Ginny is just really charismatic, that’s all,’ she chided herself mentally, nodding into the mirror in Ginny’s direction. She looped her arm in with the other girl’s and they both left the dorm. Heading down the stairs towards to common room, Ginny spoke:

“Oh yeah, you’ll come by sometime during the break, right? The twins are dying to meet you after Ron told them you slapped Malfoy,” she said, with the most mischievous look on her face.

“Oh no, please don’t tell me all of Britain knows that I slapped Malfoy?” Hermione whined exasperated. If she had known that she would get this much attention, well, she still would have done it, but maybe when there weren’t so many witnesses.

“ ‘Fraid so, Hermione, even told my uncle Sirius and he got a right kick out of it, ‘cause the Malfoys are cousins of his that he absolutely loathes.” it was Harry who responded, meeting them at the bottom of the stairwell, holding out a hand for Ginny to take.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” she replied, horrified.

“Nope,” he said, with a pop to the ‘p’, looking might smug.

They all entered the common room and Hermione got a look at Ginny and Harry together, and not for the first time, realized that they made a dashing couple, especially with their robes complimenting each other just so. Ginny’s were a bright turquoise with gold accents, which complimented her tanned, freckled skin and her bright orange-red hair beautifully, which had been styled with side swept giant pin curls, a style that was all the rage in the UK nowadays. Harry’s robes, on the other hand, were a dark teal, and gold accents, the darker shade bringing out the green of his eyes, and complimenting the brown of his complexion. Though, as usual, his hair looked like a bird’s nest, his was a curl pattern entirely different than Hermione's, though just as uncontrollable, which she found funny, as it was Harry’s grandfather, Fleamont Potter, who invented Sleekeazys hair potion.

Thinking of Harry’s relatives, she had learned from him that his was an old British family, going back almost a thousand years. Though a couple of generations ago, his great-great-grandfather, Henry Potter, decided to travel after Hogwarts as a sort of pilgrimage, studying the magic of different cultures. He had eventually settled in India for some many years, marrying and starting a family there, however, being the younger son at the time, or ‘the spare’, he’d had to return Britain with his wife and children when his older brother had been killed in a feud fought by duel, he who had been childless.

His son, Harin, ironically fell in love with a British-Indian witch by the name of Anjali Fleamont, while visiting family in India, furthermore their own son, Fleamont, named after his mother's British surname, met Harry's grandmother, Ehimaya, while visiting Gujarat. They had fallen in love and relocated back to England where they married, and she eventually anglicized her name to Euphemia. Fleamont's brother Charlus, on the other hand, had married a woman from the Black family, they had left England for America twenty years ago and weren't very good at keeping in touch, apparently, they had a son, but Harry didn't even know his name. Harry's father, James, also broke the odd pattern by falling in love and then marrying his muggleborn classmate, Lily. That British families could recite their family trees with their eyes closed made her head spin, but she liked the story of it, all the same, it reminded her of her own maman’s story and how she met Hermione’s papa.

That all it took was for a person to open one’s heart and eyes to the differences in others, whether that be a difference in skin, religion, ethnicity, or even blood status, that it was so easy to fall in love if you did so. 

She was shocked from her thoughts when she felt an arm sneak around her waist and pull her towards another body. She jerked her head to the side to find who the offending appendage belonged to, only to find Cormac. She had to admit, however uncomfortable she was with his proximity, that he was quite dashing. His blonde curls were artfully tousled, and he smelt quite nice. His robes were of dark maroon with lilac accents, to match her own, she supposed and pondered on who it was that told him the colour she would be wearing because she certainly hadn’t even thought of it.

“You look absolutely good enough to eat,” he whispered in her ear, his Scottish accent very strong.

‘Oh no, he had to go and open his mouth,’ she thought despairingly.

Apparently her thoughts were plain as day on her face because immediately after she heard Seamus guffaw in her direction from his place on the couches, with Dean’s head resting in his lap. She looked towards Harry and Ginny who were stifling laughs, she glared at them, causing them to laugh harder. Ignoring them, she looked around.

“Where’s Ron?” not even bothering to deign Cormac’s comment with a response. Ginny gave her a sly, knowing smile, while Harry was oblivious as he answered with a shrug:

“Oh, he decided to have an early night, said he wasn’t feeling well.” Hermione frowned, disappointed.

“Anyhow, let’s head out shall we?” Cormac declared, offering his arm to her, she took it and willed herself to just get through the night, and then, she could sleep. It was just one evening, she could do this.

As they arrived at the gala, Hermione was baffled at how many people there were and how fancy they were all dressed.

‘There are two wars going on,’ she thought dryly, wondering what kind of an alternate reality she’d fallen into for a school to host these kinds of events.

The majority of the ‘Slug Club’ as she’d been told consisted of Slytherins, with an additional one or two from every other house. From Gryffindor, Ginny, Harry and Cormac were the only members. Ginny because of her quidditch prowess and general popularity, Harry also because of his quidditch skill, but mostly because his mother had been a member during her Hogwarts days. To hear Harry explain it, it was ‘all a load of pish’ that he tried to avoid to the best of his ability. He, as Quidditch Captain, even went so far as to schedule practices and matches during held meetings on purpose. Lastly, Cormac was a member because he had important family members both on the Wizengamot and other high offices in the ministry.

Harry and Ginny went to go dance, leaving her with Cormac, but not before sneaking her a look of pity and apology. Cormac dragged her around the room, to speak to ‘influential’ people, and she had to say, she didn’t have an awful time. She’d been able to speak to a few barristers, who she asked for advice in choosing Magical Law as a possible career path, as she wanted to help the disenfranchised, but wasn't too sure about trying to work for the British ministry, and she wasn't too knowledgeable of the other ministries of Scotland, Northern/Southern Ireland and Wales. Two had given her solid advice, while another blanched when she introduced herself, before excusing themselves posthaste.

She’d also gotten a lot of confusing questions asking if she were a ‘Dagworth-Granger’ and as soon as she’d told them ‘no’, they’d also excuse themselves immediately. Hermione was no fool, she knew it had to do with her blood status, she was just surprised that the discrimination was so prevalent in the isles, especially after essentially being told that it was safe for nouveau-sang here.

She saw Tom, and tried her mighty best to avoid him, he had a beautiful girl on his arm that she had to admit to being a bit envious of. Her long dark hair was styled in a way that enhanced her willowy beauty, and her eyes were of the most remarkable silver, framed by long lashes. Hermione quietly joked to herself that she was looking at an example of La Belle et la Bête, for though Tom didn’t look like a beast, she thought he certainly acted like one.

‘No, he is definitely no beast on the outside,’ she frowned, giving him a once over discreetly. He had always been unnaturally handsome. He was very tall with broad shoulders, with a lightly tanned complexion and black hair that curled lightly over the side of his forehead. His features boasted a square jawline, Greek nose, and pronounced Cupid’s bow, with thick dark brows and black lashes that framed and emphasized his unsettling light eyes. He had a light shadow dusting his jaw and cheeks, though Hermione could tell he shaved daily, his teeth were straight and white, and his hands elegant. He was so beautiful that’d she’d taken to calling him “le diable” in her head, remembering all the times she sat at her mamie’s knee while she read the bible to Hermione, describing Lucifer as the most beautiful of God’s angels, but also the most terrible.

The night carried on quite late when Ginny dragged over a very tall girl with long dirty blonde hair and bright blue eyes.

“Hermione! Hey, I wanted to introduce to you my friend, this is Luna Lovegood!” she chirped, evidently a bit tipsy, “She’s in my year, but in Ravenclaw, her father in the editor-in-chief of ‘The Quibbler’, which had gotten quite a name for itself, seeing that Newt Scamander will only interview with them,” she rambled, while Hermione held out a hand to shake Luna’s, who stared at it oddly before shaking.

“Hullo Hermione,” she spoke, her voice soft and a bit deep, with a pronounced West Country accent.

“Hello Luna, it is nice to meet you,” she replied, admiring her bright blue robes with actual sunflowers stitched on, “your robes are lovely,” she complimented.

“Thank you, papa helped me make them,” she said, surveying one of the flowers on herself, “it is nice to meet new people, but sometimes not all the time,” she finished, picking at a bit of fluff that had gotten caught on her.

“I suppose you’re right,” Hermione responded, thinking of Tom briefly. Luna brought her gaze back to her and tilted her head, soft concern lighting her eyes.

“You should be careful, that path seems a bit dark,” she said before inclining her head politely and leaving, Hermione sucked in a sharp breath and nodded dumbly. She was brought out of her daze by Cormac with drinks.

“Was that looney-Loki?” Cormac sniggered, to which Hermione stared confused at him, before correcting him.

“No, that’s Luna.” she took the drink from the hand that he had angled towards her, and sniffed it. It smelled strong.

“What’s in this? They don’t have any hard liquor here.” she shot him a suspicious glance. He grinned smugly at her.

“Just a little something-something I smuggled in,” he replied, wiggling his eyebrows and pulling a flask slightly out of his breast pocket to show her. She rolled her eyes, thinking this boy had to be an alcoholic. She sniffed at the drink one more time, noting how it made her eyes water, she figured she should just get it over with, so she knocked it back and tried not to gag while Cormac drank his own.

‘I really am not a drinker,’ she thought, making a face at the burn it left in her throat.

Cormac asked her dance right after, and seeing no one else around that she could talk with, she accepted. They’d only been dancing for a few minutes when she began to feel overheated, she pulled herself away from her partner and excused herself to the ladies room. Once there, she splashed water on her face, thankful for the impervious charm Sophie had the forethought to apply, which protected her makeup.

‘Am I drunk?’ she thought, confused, she hadn’t had that much to drink. The lanterns in the washroom were very bright, causing her to squint. That drink Cormac gave her must have been especially strong, and being an irregular drinker, it must have hit her quite hard. When she left the washroom, she was quite dizzy and was surprised to find Cormac waiting for her.

“I’m not feeling too well, I’m going to head back to Gryffindor Tower.” was she slurring? She couldn’t tell, she began to walk away in the direction she knew that left the dungeons.

“I’ll walk with you, wanna make sure you get back alright.” He walked beside her, offering her his arm, which she took gratefully. Standing and walking were starting to become an herculean task.

It felt like both seconds and hours passed, and yet they were still in the dungeons. At one point, she just closed her eyes and let Cormac lead. She had never been this drunk before.

‘Why do people do this? It really is unpleasant’ she thought, making a vow to never get drunk again.

They turned suddenly, and Hermione couldn’t tell if her eyes were even open or closed anymore because all she could see was pitch black. They kept walking until Cormac stopped, causing her to stumble, confused until Cormac steadied her against a wall. She thought the cool stone was quite nice on her overheated back.

“Sommes-nous déjà là?” she murmured, did she say that in English or French? Did she even say it aloud? She wasn’t sure of a lot of things right now. Her answer was something warm wrapped tightly around her waist, his arm, she thinks, pulling her against him, and a wet pressure on her neck. Was he kissing her? No, it was like he was suckling, was he a vampire? Did no one else know? Impossible, she’d seen him under the sun, how long ago was that? She felt so tired and sluggish like she was swimming through molasses. Her feet hurt from her shoes she was and she just wanted to crawl under her blankets and go to sleep.

She tilted her head back, but her bun prevented her from resting it against the nice, cool wall. The pain from one of her feet was gone, and she realized he was holding her leg up. Why was he doing that? She was going to fall asleep at any minute, surely he did not think she was up for messing around because she wasn’t.

“Arrêt,” she slurred, trying to push him away, wondering again if she had spoken in English or French.

Suddenly, there was a bright light that she could see through her eyelids.

‘Ah, so my eyes were already closed.’ even her thoughts were starting to sound slurred.

She hears talking, but can’t make out what’s being said, everything sounds like its underwater. She tries once more to give Cormac a push, she thinks she’s successful, but can’t be sure, she hears more talking and it’s lulling her to sleep, she thinks it’s the rumbling of Cormac’s chest pressed against hers as he speaks. She doesn’t know, so she just sleeps. She feels weightless, coming to at one point.

“Look at the trouble you get yourself into.” it’s the clearest thing she’s heard in a while, and she thinks she recognizes the voice, but again isn’t sure, so she falls back asleep, and stays that way.

When she wakes up, everything is so bright.

‘Didn’t I close the bed curtains?’ she thinks miserably, groaning as she brings a hand up to cover her eyes. Her throat felt like sandpaper and the taste in her mouth was truly unpleasant.

“Ah, Miss. Granger-Riddle, glad you’re awake, how are you feeling?” she opened her eyes to see Madam Pomfrey leaning over her, realizing she was in the hospital wing. Her mind played back the mediwitch’s question before she answered.

“I feel nauseated and my head hurts a bit, but otherwise fine,” she answered, “how did I get here?” she asked.

“Well, it’s not easy to hear, but you had traces of befuddlement draught in your system,” she began, her voice gentle, “our head boy, Mr. Riddle brought you here last night, reporting that he found your date trying to take advantage of your unconscious self.” Hermione blinked, realizing she remembered almost nothing from after leaving to go to the washroom, the night before.

“What?” she asked, rather numbly. Had Cormac drugged her?

“I think it goes without saying that this needs to be reported to your head of house,” she nodded, still numb, and she vaguely heard Madam Pomfrey summon an elf to fetch Professor Dumbledore, but it all sounds like gibberish to her.

She felt sick, why did these things keep happening to her? Was she really so oblivious to her surroundings? No, she wasn’t, she knew she wasn't, but she had misplaced her trust when she trusted Cormac. She’d been taken in by the warmth of Gryffindor house, that she didn’t think anyone there would be capable of something like this. He had given her notes and had joked with her in the common room.

She felt so stupid.

She hadn’t realized, lost in her thoughts, that she was crying, and Professor Dumbledore was silent by her side. When she noticed, he simply offered her a handkerchief to wipe her eyes.

“I apologize, Professor, I did not realize you were there,” she said, wiping her eyes. Turning to look at him, he was wearing cheery blue robes with suns on them. His auburn beard was braided with matching string, and his hat was a bit lopsided.

“It’s quite alright, do you mind speaking to me?” he asked, “you still have about five hours until the train leaves,” he assured her, and Hermione closed her eyes, exhausted, she’d forgotten all about that.

“I-“ she hesitated. Would he even believe her? She didn’t remember anything clearly, after all? Wouldn’t everyone in Gryffindor be angry with her? Her mind raced of all consequences to telling the truth.

“Consider this, Miss. Granger-Riddle, believe that you are right, what if he does it to someone else?” he asked calmly, “if you wish, I will keep your involvement anonymous,” he conveyed, blue eyes sad behind half-moon spectacles.

“I just don’t remember exactly what happened, its all blank. According to Madam Promfrey, To- Mr. Riddle brought me here.” she swallowed the lump in her throat, “what I can remember is feeling a bit feverish and excusing myself to the ladies room, and when I came out, Cormac was there waiting, it gets all fuzzy after that and I don’t even remember coming in contact with Mr. Riddle at all.” She was unnerved by Dumbledore’s disbelieving expression, she turned her gaze to stare at her hands.

‘He doesn’t believe me,’ she thought, morosely.

“I do believe you, Miss. Granger-Riddle,” he said, as if reading her mind, “I will see what I can do, in the meantime please take care and enjoy your holiday.” she brought her gaze back up to his, and nodded. Professor Dumbledore gave her a reassuring smile, before getting up to leave. She wasn’t sure if telling her head of house would lead to anything, but for now, she felt a bit better.

The rest of the morning flew by in a blur, her returning to Gryffindor tower to pack her trunk, still in her robes from the night before. She had apparently worried all of her dorm mates but had placated them with a made-up story, not ready to tell anyone what really happened.

She showered, leaving her hair unwashed, she figured she would do that later that night, as she didn’t have the time currently. She retied it into a messy bun and put a headband on to hopefully give the illusion that she was put together, sleeping on a cotton pillowcase with no head wrapping had really done her no favours.

Before she knew it, she was on the train home. She wanted nothing more than to sleep the long ride away but felt without a doubt that she wouldn’t be able to rest until she confronted Cormac. So, as the train left Hogsmead station, she left her things with her friends in the carriage and walked the train. She found him walking between carriages, alone, so she approached him, making sure no one was paying attention to her.

“Cormac, can I speak to you, please?” she asked politely, he looked a little panicked at seeing her, but it was gone in a blink before agreeing and following her to a more deserted part of the train hallway, with more empty carriages. She turned her attention back to Cormac, whose expression was annoyed as if he were doing her a favour by agreeing to talk to her. She knew immediately then that this was not going to go the way she’d hoped, which had been a confession and apology.

“I was told by Madam Pomfrey that I had traces of Befuddlement Draught in my system,” she began, carefully, scouring his face for his guilt, prompting him to chime in.

“Listen, I had no idea it would affect you so bad, I offered you a drink and you took it, I thought you were all for it hanging off me like a bowtruckle,” he replied standoffishly, fluffing the top of his hair with his fingers while looking into his reflection in another carriage’s glass window. She blinked, stunned.

‘No idea it would affect me so bad!?’ her inner voice screamed in her head, ‘only a fool would have been unaware that mixing a befuddlement draught with potent alcohol creates a heavy sedative,’ she scoffed mentally, just barely managing to choke down a snarl, a cacophony of French curses streaming in her mind like a vivid merry-go-round.

Hermione was livid, he fully intended to blame her! If asked, even by Dumbledore himself, he would try to spin it to look like she were the slag, even though she’d been basically unconscious. He could probably get away with it too, as she didn’t know if Dumbledore would speak to Tom for more information, and even if he did, she had no idea if Tom would cooperate.

In that moment, she considered the type of person Cormac was, a pureblood with family in high positions, against herself, a nouveau-sang with no magical connections. She realized that not only was he expecting to get away with his actions scot-free, but it was also quite likely that he would succeed. A cold fury swept through her, if Tom apparently hadn’t shown up, she was certain that Cormac would have absolutely raped her unconscious body. She decided right that second that her only option was to get even. Quickly, she calculated a plan of action, as well as possible consequences, and spoke before the length of silence became too awkward.

“I-I see, well, if you aren’t opposed, could we continue where we left off?” she asked sweetly, biting her lip timidly.

He swivelled his head to look at her incredulously before a slow smile spread across his lips when she shrugged her shoulders innocently, she thought once again of how much of a shame it was for someone so good looking to be so vile.

“Why Miss. Granger-Riddle, I never! Are you propositioning me?” he joked slyly as she smiled at him coyly, fluttering her lashes a bit at him.

“I know there is another patrol in fifteen minutes, allow me?” he continued, opening the door to one of the empty carriages, she followed him in. As soon as the door was closed, she locked it, lowered the blinds and silenced the perimeter, and walked up to him, slowly, hiding her wand in her dress sleeve. She noted that his blue eyes were dark, pupils wide as he swept his gaze up and down her body. She sneered and quickly immobilized and silenced him.

His eyes went wide, apparently realizing that she had tricked him. She lowered him onto the seat and stood in front of him, thinking of the perfect hex. She sighed, giving him a sad look.

“You could have just confessed and apologized, that is all I wanted, maybe even your word that you would never do it again,” she told him sullenly, “well, at least now, no one will allow you to get close enough.” She pointed her wand at his head and whispered the incantation under her breath.

He gasped in discomfort, and she watched in fascination as vicious boils appeared, spelling out the word ‘rapist’ along his forehead. She felt it fitting, that even when it healed, it would probably scar, and every girl who will ever meet him will know to keep her distance. She then pointed her wand at his mouth and cursed him to never be able to speak about her involvement, before sniffing disdainfully at him and leaving him in the carriage alone, still immobilized.

She made her way back to her friends to what she felt would be a well-deserved nap, smiling amiably in greeting when she returned.

She slept for the remainder of the ride, her friends leaving her be, but waking her a half-hour from York. She had thought it unfair at first, that the train only went to London, but apparently she had been mistaken, when dropping students off, the Hogwarts express did make stops along the way in every major city. She gathered her things and her trunk, shrinking it all and placing them in her handbag. She promised to write while saying her goodbyes, leaving the carriage to go find Tom, only to turn and almost walk right into him. He was wearing muggle clothes, and Hermione thought for a flash that they really suited him.

“Oh, I was going to come find you, since we're almost there,” she rambled. She didn’t know what to say to him, apparently, he had helped her, but she had no recollection of it. He merely stared at her, studying her face before nodding once she became uncomfortable with the silence, and led her towards one of the doors to the train.

She fidgeted as they waited, Tom was the picture of calm, staring at the wall opposite of them. They were the only ones at this particular door, if she looked down the length of the train, she could see a few other students with coats on starting to congregate at the other doors.

“I wanted to thank you,” she started, refusing to look at him, though she could feel that she had his attention.

“You didn’t have to help me, but apparently you did.” she spit out fast, “so, thank you.” she heard nothing, so she glanced up at him to find him staring again, so she stared back, until the train began to slow, and she turned her attention away. She held onto the railing as the train came to a stop, and as the doors opened, she heard it.

“You’re welcome.” But when she turned back to him, it was like he said nothing at all, so she shrugged it off and exited the train with Tom behind her. It only took a few moments to find the driver holding a sign that said ‘Riddles’. Her mother would be at home, waiting, Hermione had missed her.

She looked over at Tom out of the corner of her eye once they were seated in the car, and couldn’t help but think that good or bad, it would certainly be an interesting break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anyone curious, vague face claim for Tom in this story is toni mahfud, because that man is too good looking for words (like 95% of my personal attraction to humans tend to be women, but there goes that 5% jfc) if you’re curious, check him out on Instagram cause he’s also an extremely talented artist. 
> 
> indian harry? yes, indian harry.
> 
> also, f jkr, hermione says trans rights. 
> 
> finally got a laptop which makes typing so much easier, i've been writing these chapters on my phone which was why they were riddled with grammar errors, i've since gone through and reedited all existing chapters.
> 
> hope you all enjoyed the chapter.


	13. Chapter 12 - A Quote?

Chapter 12 - Riddle Manor - December 17th, 1943

Maids were bustling to and from, some were cleaning, some were carrying a variety of dishes and linens, others were decorating the dining hall for the holidays, as Helen supervised, list in hand. Tomorrow night Hermione would be coming home, and with her, Tom. That was not all that was happening, tonight she was hosting a Christmas dinner for acquaintances of the Riddle name, which included potential clients and key investors for the company.

This was necessary to avoid ruin and scandal following the murders of Thomas Riddle and his family, she decided to host it the night before the teenagers arrived, in order to not blindside them. She knew she raised Hermione to be able to handle high-brow society, despite the ridicule she received from Antoine at the time, but she could not say for certain of Tom. Certainly, she got the impression through his letters, however, she knew teenagers to be tricky and capable of all kinds of fibs and masks, Hermione being a big offender of it, so she reserved judgement until she met him face to face.

Helen had already prepared old Tom’s suite for his son, it had been one of the nicer abodes in the manor, and despite his disregard for his son, she thought it only fitting that Tom Jr. occupy it. It had been, of course, completely gutted and refurnished in the last two months, she had chosen green accents to the dark wood, as Hermione had told her all about the houses the students were sorted into, and that Tom was in ‘Slytherin’ whose colour was green. She had non-magical clothing purchased already for both of them, with a tailor booked to arrive on Monday. A full wardrobe for Tom and Hermione needed winter clothing for the first time in her life.

Two weeks ago, she had travelled to Diagon Alley, she'd had brought with her a special pair of spectacles that allowed her to see the entrance of The Leaky Cauldron, they were given to her when she had written to the Hogwarts staff after being unsuccessful in an attempt to originally buy Hermione's school supplies, explaining that she hadn't felt comfortable sending her daughter alone without her; they were made by the charms professor, a Professor MacMillan, it was apparently something they offered most 'involved' parents of 'muggleborns', with the concession that they are returned when her daughter finished her schooling with them.

She had been able to see the dilapidated pub, and once inside she had simply followed a wizard going through the brick wall, greeting him genially before being on her way. She had dressed in a long winter cloak covering her dress, having it made to resemble the cloak Hermione had needed to purchase when they first did her school shopping. It just went to show that if you pretend you belong somewhere, no one will question you.

‘It is so bizarre that wizards can’t actually tell who is magical and who is not on sight, yet can fight a whole war in favour of discrimination and genocide,’ she thought derisively, heading towards the great marble bank at the end of the alley. She nodded to the goblins standing guard before entering. When Hermione had first begun attending Beauxbatons, Helen and Antoine had travelled, with an escort the school had arranged for them, to the nearest Gringotts bank in Caracas, Venezuela to open an account. She hadn’t felt comfortable sending her daughter to another country to go to school with only a handful of coins, especially if she went school shopping in Toulouse, which was also in southern France.

In the British Gringotts that day, she requested to open both a family account and a separate one for Tom, which she had connected with the family one to be refilled, along with Hermione’s. She linked the family account with the appropriate papers to the main Riddle account through the Bank of England, starting at the conversion of two million pounds to galleons, furthermore taking half of that amount and splitting it between both teenager's accounts. The goblins knew immediately that she was not magical, and they drove a hard bargain setting the interest for the family account, trying to swindle her by thinking her a foolish muggle. Unfortunately for them, she’d always had a mind for numbers, and would not be swindled out of more money than they were due. She left the bank two hours later with two golden keys and a sense of accomplishment. She would pass off the vault as Tom's Christmas gift, should he refuse her proposition, if he did not, then it still played her out as being one step ahead, which was fine with her.

Now, she was preparing for this dinner that she truly could not care less for, preparing to be questioned on her personal life choices until the vipers were satisfied, all to project the illusion that the Riddle family was strong as ever.

Her lady’s maid, Annie, fastened the pearls around her neck and adjusted her collar before stepping back.

“Thank you, Annie, you can take the rest of the night off, I’m sure I will manage.” she smiled at the girl through the mirror. The young blond girl was is her early twenties, her bother had gone to fight in the war and had died, so she used her wages from the manor to help pay for her mother’s rent and utilities. The girl smiled her thanks, inclining her head as she made to leave.

She had wanted to pick a maid and butler for Hermione and Tom, but thought better of it, considering they were magical, it would put undue stress of using their gifts in the privacy of their own suites.

An hour later, everything was immaculate within the entire manor, guests had been congregated into the dining hall, and she would have a couple of minutes to greet with each before commencing the dinner. Helen walked into the dining hall with her head held high, to the judgmental stares of thirty sets of eyes, she shoved her nervousness to the back of her mind and smiled.

Greetings had gone as well as she had planned, which was perfect because she expected nothing less. She began her path to the dining table, allowing manor staff to lead the guests to their seats, and as soon as the first course was served, she stood to give a toast.

“Good evening everyone,” she started calmly, she’d been dusting off her Queen’s English accent all day, she’d lost it for a while, as she'd developed a mix of something British and French while living in Martinique, but found she could switch it on and off as the need arose.

“I am overjoyed that you could all make it tonight, and I do hope you are enjoying yourselves,” taking a pause to look around at them all.

“I’d like to begin this dinner with some words for my dearly departed cousin, Thomas, his wife Mary, and their son, Tom,” she began, reaching for her champagne flute, the guests moved to copy her, some closing their eyes and bowing their heads in respect.

“You were taken so savagely from our lives, that the void left behind almost seems too steep to fill,” she continued, lying through her teeth, “I hope that I may make you proud by stepping into your shoes, to see to it that the Riddle family continues to stay as strong as it has always been,” she pauses, raising her flute.

“We toast tonight, and this holiday to you, so that we may respect those who have passed, and that we may prosper for our future,” she finished to a chorus of ‘cheers’, as everyone toasted and drank to the future. After all, everyone here would continue to prosper financially should Riddle Arms and Weaponry stay successful and affiliated with them.

The dinner continued with nary a hiccup, and Helen answered invasive question after invasive question as gracefully as she’d be raised to. Many were curious as to her marriage, why she left Britain, her daughter until one question piped up that she knew she wouldn’t have been able to avoid.

“Not that anyone here thinks you are incapable, madam, far from it really, but have you not considered remarrying? To have a husband help you?” a guest to her left asked, a man she knew very well, her skin crawling as his eyes scoured her like a hot ticket.

This was Theodore Seaborn, and as his name suggested, he inherited a multi-million-pound naval manufacturing company started by his family in the early 1600s. They had worked hand in hand with Riddle Arms since the war in 1914, supplying their warships commissioned by the British army and the Royal Navy, with heavy arms. Both Riddles and Seaborns had made bank during those times, as they continued to do so to this day. Now, though, she mostly recognized him as being one of the most aggressive in trying to entice her to merge or sell.

The fact that he was asking about her intent to marry was nothing more than another approach to gain control of Riddle wealth. She supposed he was handsome enough, he was blonde and blue-eyed, and he had weathered tan skin that only enhanced the age lines on his face. Unfortunately for him, she was not a simpering, weak-willed woman opening her legs at the notion of a selfless man wanting her despite her ‘unfortunate’ age. Not that she wouldn’t sleep with him, she supposes, she never really subscribed to beliefs that Antoine’s mother, Jeanne-Antide, had essentially hammered into Hermione, quite honestly, she only really paid the barest amount of lip service to religion, it was just that he incorrectly viewed her as inferior to him, and that was unacceptable. She smiled pleasantly at him.

“I am afraid not, as Riddle Arms is currently my first and foremost concern for the duration that the war continues,” she answered sweetly, taking a sip of her wine.

“Besides, there is a Riddle man around the house, or will be, as my cousin Tom had a son my daughter’s age, he will be arriving with her from their shared boarding school tomorrow.” deciding to say nothing on whether Tom Jr. had any intention of actually taking up in the family business. She revelled in their shock, and the few dismayed, those being the ‘potential’ buyers.

“Old Tom had a son?”

“I don’t recall him having a boy.”

“Where has he been hiding him this whole time?” and a flurry of other questions bombarded her, she put them all to rest.

“Mm, the boy lived in London apparently with his mother, he is from the short-lived marriage of Tom’s in 1925, oh you all know, the folly of youth after all,” she joked, and it seemed to placate them that at least the boy wasn’t a bastard. The look on Seaborn’s face as he gazed at her could only be nothing short of apoplectic, and it filled her with a great sense of satisfaction. She gave him a small smile over her glass, daring him to make a scene.

‘Underestimate me at your own peril, good sir,’ she thought smugly, taking a sip.

The rest of the dinner continued and ended with little fanfare, investors had been relieved to hear that there was a male heir, while potential buyers mourned the opportunity to purchase the company, as if it had ever been up for sale, but deigning to continue to do business with her all the same. As a woman, she was used to these blatant insults hurled at her person, to which all she could do was smile and nod, while wholly planning to swindle them of all their money and hoarding that vast amount of wealth where only Riddle hands could ever touch it.

As the last guest left, and the manor staffed cleaned and set the room for the next day, Helen began to retire to her suite. Her girl was coming home, finally, she’d been so worried, especially once finding out that she’d been hurt, she thought it had been quite generous of young Tom to keep her updated, but Helen wanted to see her for herself.

She entered her rooms and made her way to the liquor stand against the far wall and poured herself two fingers of scotch, before walking around her great fireplace. She saluted Antoine’s picture that she had placed upon the mantel, downing it back in one go.  
  


Tom gazed at the countryside out the window of the car as the landscape blurred passed. He had never been in one of these monstrosities, he found it didn’t go very fast, he was positive a broom could fly faster than this car could drive, and it was quite ugly, like a big, shiny black coffin on wheels. He tried to distract himself from present company by trying to remember what Riddle manor even looked like. He recalled scoffing at the obscene display of wealth, but hadn’t taken in any detail, nor did he actually know what the Riddle’s did to obtain such wealth, having never bothered to find out, too bitter had he been at being abandoned. He thought he washed his hands of his disgusting muggle side before Hermione showed up. Finally glancing at her out the corner of his eye, she seemed calm and unperturbed, staring out the window bored, her eyes were drooping tiredly.

He would have been surprised at her lack of melancholy considering where she woke up this morning, had he not heard the rumour going around the train earlier of McLaggen’s new style, he’d gone to investigate earlier and was torn between being rightly impressed with her ingenuity, and denouncing her foolishness without considering every single consequence. McLaggen’s were a powerful family, and she’d just scarred their heir, there were bound to be negative consequences to that, regardless of how deserving the rat was of it.

After breakfast that morning, Dumbledore had summoned him to his office to discuss the details, Tom learned that Hermione hadn’t had much memory of the event, however, instead of telling him the details, he simply pulled the memory from his mind. Dumbledore had nodded and offered an empty potions bottle for it, Tom had set it on the desk before asking to take his leave. He gazed now at Hermione to find that during his musings she’d fallen asleep, and Tom was instantly reminded of his revelation from the night before, mercifully those feelings weren’t as strong now as they had been then, though they were not gone entirely.

The car slowed and Tom turned his attention back out the window, taking in the splendour that was Riddle manor, as the car cleared the roundabout out front that boasted an ostentatious fountain. The sky had darkened during the drive, and he found himself in awe of the grandeur, all the windows were lit, and there were fairy lights lining the long drive on every tree, in what must be for Christmas. The manor itself was a cross between Gothic and Victorian architecture, with many large, pained windows, tan sandstone and pointed spires upon the roof, with all of the accents a crisp white, the many lit windows lighting the face of the manor, making it easy to distinguish, even against the dark evening.

The car stopped in front of the main entrance, where a butler and a maid stood waiting. He reached over and gently shook Hermione awake, to which she stared at him, dazed, before turning her attention to the window, understanding why he woke her. The butler opened the door for him, while the driver opened hers. They both exited the car, and Hermione waited for him to walk around before heading indoors.

Upon entering the manor, there was a woman waiting who could only be the notorious Helen Riddle, he was surprised to find that she was quite tall, while Hermione was quite short. He realized that up until that point, he’d never considered her father, having simply assumed for some reason or another that the man was out of the picture, but now he was curious as to who had more of their daughter in them.

Helen turned to him after a few hushed French phrases of endearment to Hermione, and held out her hand for him to shake, she only had to tilt her head up slightly to meet his gaze. He used legilimency to get a quick read of her thoughts, a skill he’d always used to get ahead but refrained generally in Hogwarts as he couldn’t tell who knew occlumency. An attempt at legilimency without the consent of the target was instant grounds for arrest and at least 2 years in Azkaban. Those who knew occlumency could always feel when a legilimens made an attempt to read their thoughts, so Tom deemed it safer instead to save that talent for muggles. Not to mention that anyone could learn occlumency with the right dedication, but legilimens were generally born with the talent, like Tom was, though he supposed it could be learned if one was an exceptionally powerful mage, due to the amount of control that is required to not lose oneself in the mind of another. He’d learned to use occlumency early in his life unknowingly to block the random, intrusive thoughts of others, to the point that it was now second nature.

On her surface thoughts, Helen was curious about him, but there was also a wariness, she did not know what type of boy she was inviting into her home, where her precious daughter was, but she was apparently willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He shook her hand immediately when she’d held it out, his actions on auto-pilot while he mused. He introduced himself and started some idle chat.

“It’s a pleasure to finally put a face to a name,” he began noting that Hermione fidgeted beside him, he was tempted briefly to grab and squeeze her hands to stop them from moving. He had to play this carefully, Hermione had gotten a glimpse of the real him, he could not allow her to mar his fake reputation.

“Hermione speaks very highly of you, and even though our correspondence allowed me to get to know you, I find nothing does quite the justice as meeting face to face,” he spoke amiably. To which, Hermione looked at him warily.

“Oh, so you are better acquainted than Hermione originally informed me,” Helen replied, giving Hermione an admonishing look. Tom wondered what she had written about him, something purring in his chest at the idea, he scanned Helen’s surface thoughts again only to find Hermione’s vague concerns that they wouldn’t get along.

‘Naughty girl, hiding things from your mother,’ he chided in his thoughts, pleased at the development.

“Yes, well, we had a bit of a rough beginning, but I’d say we’ve worked out our difference.” he turned to regard the girl beside him, “haven’t we?” she glared at him before smiling at her mother and confirming.

“Well then, I will let you get settled Tom, David here will show you to your rooms, and if you don’t mind terribly, I’d like to speak to you in an hour, David will also escort you then.” she gestured to the butler at her side. Tom nodded and followed the man, not bothering to converse with him. They climbed the main staircase to the third floor, to where he assumed were the family suites, he appraised the decor all the while. The halls and stairways were grand and well lit and made from a light marble, the furniture that he passed were all made from dark woods with all metal accents a polished gold. It was quite tasteful, and he was split in two between rage that he had been denied all of this, and satisfaction that it was all his now. He wondered again what it was that allowed the Riddle’s to become this wealthy, as these types of riches had always normally been reserved for earls and barons and the like, which the Riddles had not been, he had checked.

He entered the rooms he’d been shown and was pleased at what he saw, a separate sitting room, a door at the far wall that he assumed led to the bedroom, fitted with dark furniture and green accents. Feeling satisfied, he started unpacking, enlarging his trunk from his pocket and putting his things away.

It was about an hour later, dinner had been served in his room almost as soon as he began unpacking since they’d arrived rather late. He’d been informed that dinner was usually in the dining hall at five sharp, going forward. He said nothing to being essentially bossed around by a muggle, deciding that refraining from judgment would be his best course of action. Currently, he was being led by the butler toward Helen’s study. They passed a sitting room on the bottom floor that Tom recognized as the one he’d killed his father and grandparents in, and was gleeful to note that Helen apparently had it gutted and renovated entirely, since their deaths.

He entered the office after knocking to find the new Madam Riddle at the desk, she greeted him briefly and motioned for him to sit. As he did, she rose and moved over to the small bar she had behind her desk, Tom took the opportunity to study his surroundings.

The floors were the same marble throughout the bottom floor of the manor, through spread long and wide was a thick red Persian carpet. The walls were lined with shelves, which were stuffed with books and the odd knick-knack, he wondered momentarily if she’d read them all. The desk was old mahogany and polished to a shine, matching the shelves, and to his left, there was a break in the shelves for the grand fireplace, made from the same marble as the floor, with a display of muskets mounted above. Overall, it was very masculine, but he found it suited her, he was interrupted from his thoughts when he heard her speak.

“Do you drink?” she asked, not even looking at him while pouring herself two fingers of what looked like a fine scotch. She glanced at him briefly, taking a sip, awaiting his answer, to which he replied that he did. She readied another tumbler and slid it across the desk towards him.

Her movements were so refined and expressions impressively elegant, that he almost forgot he was speaking to a muggle, and not a pureblood witch. She sat and regarded him with a steady gaze, so he took the opportunity to do the same. She was a handsome woman, quite tall, as he noted earlier, with a pale complexion and high cheekbones. Her hair was dark and styled into a simple chignon, and he spied the Riddle cowlick, resting along the side of her forehead. When he took in her features, he found that it was her that Hermione had inherited her eyes from, as they were a light warm brown, with a cat-like shape.

As far as muggles go, he grudgingly had to admit he was impressed so far, he hoped that as soon as she spoke, she would say something that justified his hatred for her kind once more.

“I’m sure you have questions,” she spoke lightly, opening the conversation in his favour, and he saw the play immediately for what it was: a way to give herself control. It was sly and it almost tugged a smile at his lips had he not restrained it.

“I do,” he started, glancing towards a framed photo on her desk, that he could just make out from his current vantage. It was monochromatic and still, as well as a bit blurry as if the subjects could not hold the pose long enough for the photo to finish its exposure. He could clearly make out Helen herself, though her face was blurred from what looked to be laughter, standing next to a seated man, her hands on his shoulders. The man's face was quite blurred as well, also from laughing, that all he could discern from the photo was his very white teeth against very dark skin. The stillest subject in the photo was the small child in his lap, giving the angriest little expression she could muster towards the photographer, apparently holding it so that it would be captured perfectly. He felt that even if he had not recognized Helen in the photo, he would have definitely recognized Hermione.

"How did you end up all the way in the Caribbean?" he asked because he had been wondering. She tilted her head and regarded him for a beat.

"I had been travelling the United States and the Caribbean with my father after finishing my schooling in 1917 when during our stay on Martinique, we were all struck with the Spanish Flu, nobody of our entourage survived but myself. I was eighteen at the time, and essentially stranded, so I made the most of my situation, carving out a life for myself until I could find a way back to Britain." she paused briefly to take a sip of her drink, "when the second wave of the flu hit, I offered my services as a nurse to a certain Doctor Antoine Granger in Sainte-Luce, I eventually married him and decided to stay, my decision was cemented after Hermione was born," she finished, with a delicate shrug.

“And why now did you decide to come back to England?” he asked, though, of course, he already knew why, but what he truly wanted to know was why this year specifically? Grindelwald’s war had started in the mid-1920s, while the muggle war started almost seven years ago, though it had been brewing for a lot longer. To put it simply, the existence of one Hermione Granger-Riddle baffled him so very thoroughly and he felt that, more than anything, he needed answers.

Tom had a healthy respect for every branch of magic, especially those that dealt directly in the human experience, and to find answers for it: Divination and it’s the study of dreams and prophecy, Astronomy and it’s mapping of fate through the stars, and Arithmancy, with it’s calculated variables to find the most likely scenario or outcome.

The thought had plagued him since Helen's first letter to him, what were the chances of a muggleborn Riddle, born the same year as him, from half-way across the world, finding her way, though unknowingly, to his side almost exactly the month he murders his muggle family and decided to wash his hands of them forever? Tom had tried to calculate it, but found his answers inconclusive because every answer he got was almost infinitesimal. Hermione should not exist as she does now by all rights and reason, there is a traitorous part of his mind that whispers of how she was created just for him, and he viciously ignores it, once again disturbed by his draw to her.

Tom asks because, despite all his magical reasoning, he feels he must cling to good old fashion coincidence and bitter irony, else wise, he would have to give credence to that traitorous part of him, and he finds he’s not quite ready for that magnanimity. He always knew he was superior, his discovered relation to Slytherin had proven that, but the idea that a whole person was created and existed just for him? He was far too pessimistic to take that at face value.

Helen was scrutinizing him, possibly thinking of the best way to answer without giving too much away, he can't help but think that had she been a witch, she would have made an excellent Slytherin, at least, if the hat hadn't been charmed to exclude the entire blood status from the house. It would be foolish to think there would be no such thing as a muggleborn who didn't embody ambition, cunning and self-preservation, they were just sorted elsewhere due to Salazar himself meddling with the hat before he left Hogwarts forever. Tom was broken from his thoughts when she finally answered:

“By the time a person has achieved years adequate for choosing a direction, the die is cast and the moment has long since passed which determined the future.” she clucks her tongue before taking a sip from her scotch.

“A quote?” he asks, not recognizing it, but understanding the underlying meaning all the same.

“Mm, from the wife of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Zelda, she released her own novel some ten years ago. A copy found its way to a used book market that I brought Hermione to all the time she was younger,” she paused, tapping her nail rhythmically against the wood of the desk.

“I toyed with the idea of coming back to England even years before my husband passed before this war started, however, I constantly put it off. It was Hermione apprising me of the severity of your own magical war that left me with no choice in the end.” she swirled her drink pensively and then stopped as if coming to a decision.

“I will be honest with you," she started, “all my time spent considering a return to England, not once did I wish to return to my Riddle roots, such is my own disdain for it,” she bit out derisively, before knocking back the rest of her drink in one smooth movement.

“Really? Why is that?” he asked, actually curious because he too disdained the Riddle name. He wondered also if she would drink more, that perhaps it would loosen her tongue and he would get more conclusive answers.

“Not that you would know, I almost envy you for not, but the Riddles have been a vile family since it's creation. We made our money on the subjugation of others and to this day of men's desire to murder their fellow man,” she responded, nodding towards the muskets mounted above the fireplace. He studied them for a moment before the answer came to him.

“Weapons. We make weapons.” realization dawned on him, and here he thought his own brand of viciousness had been unique to him, how delightful.

“Then why take back up with the Riddles? Come back here?” he asked, gesturing to the room around them, though he had a feeling he knew the answer, thinking of her daughter's furious glare as she butt heads with him.

“Hermione,” she said simply, before snorting, “I was especially desperate to keep her safe while travelling, retaking the Riddle name and adding it to my daughters gave us a better chance of making it back to the UK relatively unscathed.”

She reached behind her to grab the scotch bottle, turning back around to refill her tumbler. She gestured to him, and he shook his head, processing what he's just heard.

“All I had to do in return was marry your father and beget a 'proper' heir,” she sniped, sarcastically, using her fingers to imitate air quotations while she said 'proper'.  
  
“You were supposed to marry him?” he echoed, dumbfounded, in return, she gave him a sly smirk and raised her glass.

“Cheers to that Gaunt fellow for solving one of my problems.” he raised his own, the irony of the situation not lost on him, and toasted to her as he struggled to keep his humour down.

“And then you found out about me, and let me guess, you want nothing to do with the Riddle weapon business, which is why you offered me my place in the family,” he responded in a joking manner, though he was wholly serious. It was an admiral play, he'd give her that, but he had no intention of running a muggle company, not even one as intriguing as weapons manufacturing.

“Close, but no cigar,” she smiled, almost proudly, and noticed that even with the crow's feet at her eyes and lines around her mouth that she was still exceptionally lovely.

“All I need is your very male name, and I will run the company, while you enjoy the benefits of being an extremely wealthy Riddle, helping the war effort in your own way that keeps you from conscription,” she chimed, placing her chin upon her folded hands, awaiting his reply.

Tom glanced down at his drink, before downing it in a single go.

“Let's say that I'll bite, I want to know why you insist on running it yourself, first,” he asked, genuinely interested in the madness that was so obviously brewing in that brain of hers.

“Because, Tom Riddle, it would make your grandfather turn in his fucking grave,” she purred lowly, and there was a quiet malevolence that flashed across her features. He felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the use of profanity, and let out a bark of laughter before he could prevent it.

“And what could make such a high-class woman like yourself wish such petty revenge on the dead.” he was incredibly curious now, feeling a greater affinity for the Riddle seated across from him than any other he'd ever met, well, save for one.

“I am a born and raised Riddle, Tom, there is one thing about us all, and I have a feeling you would understand me when I say: We are beings made of pure spite.” and Tom had never agreed so much with a muggle ever in his life.

He decided he would keep her around, having hee-hawed at the idea of making her a death worthy of a Horcrux, like his father and grandparents, at least, for now.

“Oh, believe me, I understand.” thinking of his grandparents, who had seemed amused when he had shown up the fateful day in July. Nothing had felt so good as wiping the smiles off their faces when his father's body had crumpled to the floor, unseeing.  
  
“Give me a couple of days to think about it fully, and I will have my answer for you, in the meantime, I have one last question,” he replied to her proposition.

He did indeed have one more question, at least for tonight he was satisfied with the answers he'd received, and though he didn't need to know the answer to this next one, he felt it would be crucial to hear so that he adjusted his behaviour going forward with a certain witch.

“What does Hermione think of all of this?” he kept his tone light, so as to not betray his true amount of interest. Helen tilted her head, considering his question, before answering.

“Hermione is every bit a Riddle as you and me, but unlike us, she has the gentle nature of her father's that tempers her, she dislikes the violence that the company represents,” she replied softly, a fond look on her face as she gazed back to the photo on her desk. Tom glanced at little Hermione's angry little face and thought of McLaggen scarred to bear the word 'rapist' across his brow for the rest of his life, he found he wasn't so sure he agreed with her. As if seeing his disbelief, she reiterated. 

“She can be as hard and unforgiving as myself on even a good day, and she can hold a grudge like no other, but she wants to see good in the world, for reasons you or I could never truly grasp. As a coloured person and a nouveau-sang, she lives in violent worlds that will always wish her harm, and in that respect, I can understand her aversion to wartime violence,” she finished, shooting back the rest of her drink before standing.

“It's late, do you need an escort back to your rooms?” she asked, as she motioned for him to place his empty tumbler on the desk.

“I think I can manage, thank you for speaking with me,” he replied as she stood, adjusting his trousers from having sat for so long, he mentally wished he still had robes on, as they were much more comfortable.

“Right, good night Tom,” she said calmly, dismissing him, he replied in kind, and began his journey back to his rooms, mind bursting with new information and plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in book two hermione's parent are in gringotts when she meets up with harry and the weasleys, but it's been established that muggles can't see the leaky cauldron, we assume the only entrances are either floo, apparate, or hidden from muggles entirely, so i made up a way for them to enter diagon alley myself here, since otherwise, how would they have gotten in even with her? she can't use magic out of school to allow them to see.
> 
> also my headcannon for Helen is Michelle Dockery, because i am trash for downton abbey.
> 
> anyway heres another chapter. enjoy?


	14. Chapter 13 - Is It My Rational Brain or Menstrual Brain?

Chapter 13 – Riddle Manor – December 20th, 1943

Hermione woke up late to a knock on her door, and groggily, she lifted her head. Her hair was positively everywhere, her scarf nowhere to be found, and since it already was not looking to be a good day, she decided to ignore the knocking and go back to sleep. It was her second day back, yesterday being Sunday, however, Hermione had pretty much slept it entirely away. She hadn't wanted to deal with anything, be it, manor staff, washing her hair, Tom, or even going to mass. It also didn't help that it had been the first day of her monthlies, which always left her in a ridiculous amount of debilitating pain; she debated multiple times on getting up just to brew a pain relief potion, however, she hadn't been able to find the effort to actually do so, she barely had the energy to get up and change her sanitary pad before it soaked the bed.

Her brain was now giving a pretty good argument in favour of staying in bed an entire second day. She didn't get very far in her mental debate, though, because right then, the sheets were ripped off from over her and Hermione got a full force of the cold air on her arms and feet.

She yelped, looking up to which demon could be responsible for such cruelty, only to find her maman standing there with both hands on her hips. She groaned and moved the pillow over her head, wincing as she felt her stiff hair press into her face. She'd planned to wash it Saturday night after the train ride, but now it was Monday and she still hadn't done it. Her maman grabbed the pillow and threw it to the other side of the bed, where it was just out of reach.

"Darling, I let you sleep all of yesterday because I knew the previous day was a long one for you, however, that does not mean that I give my blessing for this lazy behaviour." at the sound of her strict expression, Hermione sat up miserably, knowing she meant business, before realizing something.

"Why are you speaking English?" she asked, confused, normally they spoke French at home, even though it had been her mother's second language. She didn't necessarily care that they spoke English, her maman had taught her throughout her life, so that should she need it, she would be fluent, she just didn't understand the sudden switch.

"We are in England now, it's probably for the best that we speak English, at least for the duration of the war," her mother chided her, and Hermione thought that was fair, momentarily embarrassed that she'd forgotten about the non-magical war. With how hectic her semester had been, and how far and safely tucked away Hogwarts was from the general UK population, she'd been able to feel privileged for a time. Her mother raised an eyebrow at her and pointed towards the washroom.

"I have a tailor arriving for you and Tom in four hours, you need to shower and wash your hair, come on, up, up!" clapping her hands as Hermione dragged herself out of bed as slowly as possible. Her stomach grumbled and she remembered that she had essentially slept through breakfast, lunch, and dinner yesterday, as well as breakfast again this morning.

She heads to the washroom, hoping her maman hadn't heard but to no avail.

"That's what happens when you sleep through meals! Hurry with your shower and hopefully, you might finish your hair by the time lunch is served!" she called out, but Hermione was already grumbling, undressing, she threw her sanitary napkin in the paper rubbish bag with a grimace, and while finishing her business, she was attempting to coat her hair in Sleekeazy's conditioning solution with one hand, while the other reached towards the tub to turn the dials for the shower.

She got in soon after, almost slipping as she entered, as she had to essentially climb into the claw-foot tub, all while angling her hair away from the spraying water, hands still working the conditioner into her hair. Only a minute in, did she realize she forgot her comb, she reached out, still trying not to get her hair wet, soaking the floor outside the tub with water and grabbed it off the counter. She washed her body as quickly as possible before finally wetting her hair, de-tangling the curls with her fingers first, before using her comb, starting from the ends, cursing all the way.

Her arms were burning by the time she was done, and she had a nice little ball of shed hair that she reached out of the shower once more to toss into the rubbish bag. She made to grab her shampoo and began scrubbing at her scalp with one hand, while the other held the ends of her hair together to prevent it from re-tangling. She rinsed it all out, wringing out all the water she could before grabbing the conditioning solution again to coat everywhere once more, except her scalp. She hummed and hawed while waiting, letting the conditioner work its magic, she used the time to snip her toenails and fingernails and debated getting rid of her leg hair. Lavender had been saying it was all the rage nowadays, but she wasn't sure she believed her, it seemed very drastic to try and rid both of her legs of hair, so she decided against it. Finally, she turned the water cold, this time angling her body entirely away from the spray to wash out a little bit of the conditioner, yelping when the cold water hit her back.

Turning off the shower, she wrapped herself in her robe and stepped out of the tub. She almost slipped on the water she spilt earlier, before righting herself, and walking back into the bedroom to the wardrobe, where she pulled out another nightgown and wrapped it around her hair. She felt her stomach growl again and whined to herself before picking her clothing for the day. She peeked out of the room and could see her maman in her small attached sitting room, it looked like she had some mercy on her and had called for tea and biscuits to be brought up, and she was currently fixing herself a cup. At the promise of biscuits, she grabbed a pair of undergarments, a new sanitary pad along with her clothes and waddled behind the dressing screen to begin dressing.

Hermione wiggled on her wool stockings, jumping to pull them up her legs and over her hips, which was challenging because her legs were still a bit damp, almost causing her to jump into the screen, barely saving it before it was knocked down. Once that was finished, she pulled on a blouse, but then pulled it off because she forgot her brassier. She pulled that on backwards, clipping it at the front before wiggling it back around properly, finally pulling on her blouse again, and slipping up her skirt.

She walked out from behind the screen, with half her shirt still untucked and walked to the sitting room. She proceeded to dive onto a seat to make herself a cup of tea, grabbing a biscuit immediately after.

"I decided to take pity on you and asked Annie if she could bring up tea and biscuits," her maman stated, staring at her over the rim of her cup, amusement shining in her eyes.

"Je t'aime," Hermione piped, blowing on her tea to cool it a bit.

"I think that was a new record for fastest shower," she laughed, eyeing the bundled nightgown still on Hermione's head. She shrugged in answer, taking a sip before sucking in air when she realized it was still too hot and that she just burned her tongue. She glared offended at her cup, she never could find the perfect temperature to enjoy tea. She always either tried to drink it while it was too hot and burnt her tongue, or she set it aside to cool and proceeded to forget she'd had tea at all, and by the time she did, it was cold.

"I don't know how you always manage to drink tea at the perfect temperature, are you sure you are not a witch?" Hermione joked, grabbing another biscuit from the tray.

"Sometimes there are simply perks to being born British, which means an ability to drink tea at any temperature, so, no, still not a witch," she retorted while laughing before her expression turned sombre. She put down her cup and saucer, stood up, and headed back towards the bedroom. When she came back she was holding Hermione's Sleekeazy's hair potion. She recalled she'd written to her maman about it, calling it a miracle potion that made her hair shiny and easy to twist, she'd been amazed when Lavender shared it with her after she woke up that she went and immediately owl ordered every product of the Sleekeazy brand.

Her maman came up behind her and began to undo the impromptu nightgown-towel, using the fabric to scrunch any excess water from her hair. She began to section off her hair, before rubbing a bit of potion on her hands, she separated the strands and began twisting.

"You've had a hard semester, probably as hard as last year," she began gently, Hermione closed her eyes, letting her maman do her hair. It reminded her of when she was little when her mamie would berate her mother for trying to brush it while it was dry, or in general for not taking care of her hair right. Maman could have gotten defensive and ignored her, but she didn't, she sat and listened, and so, even after her mamie passed away, her maman was always able to do her hair, though nowadays, it was usually while she was upset.

Her maman knew she was upset, despite the mask she put on, or how she pouted and joked earlier. It might have been the excessive sleep that tipped her off, but she was glad that she brought it up, she hid a lot of embarrassing things from her mother, but when it came to serious issues, she liked talking about it to her.

"Friday night the boy I went on a date with tried to drug and take advantage of me," she whispered, feeling her eyes sting and a knot begins to build at the back of her throat. The feeling of self-disgust at having been so stupid, to not have known better, rose up in her. Her mother's hands froze for a moment, before dropping the strands of hair, her arms came around her shoulders and her maman hugged her tight.

"Oh my girl," she said, devastated, "my sweet, brave girl, I am so sorry you had that happen to you," she kissed her cheek, before letting go and hesitantly asking, "do you want to talk about it?". Hermione nodded, she wanted to talk about how it was still bothering her, why it made her feel so weak; and so she did, while her maman did her hair, calmly listening and piping in every now and again, she eventually admitted to what she did to Cormac on the train.

"That was the wrong thing to do, you know that Hermione," her mother began, "not that I don't think he didn't deserve it, but because of the trouble, it will cause you. Men rarely like to be humiliated, and will often retaliate, I worry for your safety going back to that school," she finished and took a deep breath. "I thought I was keeping you safe, bringing you here, but it seems I brought you more hardships." she sighed, finishing the last of her twists.

Hermione pointed her wand, and like she'd done for Lavender, cleaned her hands of the potion.

"What do you want to do?" her maman asked, walking around Hermione's seat and to retake her seat across from her. Hermione took a deep breath to think for a moment.

"I'm going to finish my year so that my schooling is done and over with, but I think I want to go into Magical Law," she worried at her lip, "I want to protect the disadvantaged in what way I can." Hermione believed, for now, that she wanted to stay in Britain. Her maman had worked hard to rebuild a life for them here, and she'd made friends, so she believed she could make it work. Her mother nodded, clasping her hands together as she leaned forward to place her elbows on her knees.

"Okay." she nodded, "if you change your mind, and want to go somewhere else, I will find a way to make it happen, if this is your choice now, then I support you." Hermione teared up a little, holding her hand out for her maman to take.

"Thank you, maman," she whispered as her mother squeezed her hand.

"Je t'aime, mon coeur," she replied, before letting go. She stood again and made her way back over to the bedroom and came back with a red ribbon a minute later. She returned behind Hermione and pulled her twists into a tail high on her head, leaving two down in front to frame her face.

"Now, if that clock is not mistaken, I believe it's lunch," she piped, glancing at the clock mounted on the wall.

"Yessssss." Hermione jumped up, and followed her maman, though just shy of the door, her maman stopped and turned around.

"I almost forgot, turn around," she said laughingly, and when Hermione did, she felt a tug at her waistband, and grinned, remembering that she'd forgotten entirely to tuck in the rest of her shirt.

"Oops." looking over her shoulder sheepishly before turning around, but was surprised to find a grim expression on her mother's face.

"What is it?" she asked, as her mother put her hands on her shoulders.

"I want you to be honest with me, what do you think of Tom," she whispered, almost worried that her words would be heard through the door. Hermione then silenced the room with a flick of her wand.

"He is, well, intense doesn't seem to be a strong enough word for it," she started, "I believe he is racist, or well, magic-racist, but I'm not sure to what degree...I mean, he was the one that helped me Friday night, maman," she rambled, before asking, "Why?"

"There is something dangerous about him, I think, but I can't quite put my finger on it," her mother started, with a pensive look upon her face, and Hermione nodded.

"He is definitely dangerous, but I think, though I am not sure, his ire isn't with me and I'm not sure why," Hermione interjected, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth.

"I see, thank you for confirming my assumptions," her mother replied, gravely.

"Are you going to send him away?" she asked curiously, wondering if they would even be able to.

"If he is truly dangerous, then I do not think there is a way of sending him away without instantly making us his targets, I think our best bet is to play it safe, for now," she answered, and again, Hermione agreed. She did not want to put her maman in a potentially enraged Tom's path, he had shown her that he was capable of cruelty, and she wanted to protect her maman from that.

"Okay, lunch?" her stomach picking that moment to grumble again, deciding it was no longer satisfied with her tea and biscuits.

She ended the privacy charm, and followed her mother out of the room toward the dining hall and braced herself for lunch with one Tom Riddle.

It was sometime later that she was standing upon a stepping stool in the sitting room while a tailor knelt at her feet, taking the measurement of the length of her leg. Lunch had gone by without much fanfare, Tom had been quiet, yet courteous, and it passed rather fast. The tailor made to get up and wrapped his tape measure around her waist, her mother and Tom were sitting to the side having tea, as Tom had already been measured before her. He was watching her discomfort with a twitch of his lip, so she glared briefly at him, before turning her attention to her maman, ignoring how he leaned back and brought his cup to his face to hide that he was smirking.

"Mum," she began, making a conscious effort to use English phrases.

"Yes, darling?" she replied, spooning one scoop of sugar into her tea and mixing it, glancing up briefly.

"Can we add trousers?" she asked, she'd been meaning to ask, as she wasn't currently loving the colder weather with dresses, skirts, and even robes. She knew she could just cast a warming charm, but Hermione was of the firm belief that one didn't need to use magic for everything; besides, she liked the look of them. She heard the tailor scoff, but ignored him, her attention on her mother, so much so that she almost hadn't notice Tom choke on his tea, almost, which made her grin in triumph.

"Trousers? I don't see why not if you want them," her mother answered with a graceful shrug.

"Madam, I do not think that is proper..." the tailor trailed off, fidgeting with his tape measure.

"Why ever not? It's almost 1944, surely a woman can wear trousers in the winter to stave off the cold," she retorted politely, "take the appropriate measurements, and have a few pairs of trousers added to your bill if you please," she finished, ending the discussion with a sip of her tea.

"Yes, madam," the tailor bit out, barely polite before measuring her hips and then attempting to measure the circumference of her thigh through her skirt. Hermione looked at the clock, noting that it was only two in the afternoon, perhaps she could still take a trip to Diagon Alley to check out some books on British magical law if this appointment ended soon. She'd also like to maybe pick up a few more gifts for her friends.

"Finished, I will send word when the garments are completed," the tailor declared stiffly, David, the butler, came up to escort him out.

"Lovely, thank you for your work," her maman said to his politely, and as he left the room, her smile dropped.

"Casse-toi!" she scoffed, and Hermione let out a shock of laughter, it was always funny when her mother sniped at people, simply because she was so usually elegant and composed. She stopped as she saw Tom try to hide a smile.

"Do you speak French, Tom?" Hermione asked, curious, to which he nodded.

"I do, I learned while at Hogwarts from Abraxas," he responded with a knowing smile, that only grew when Hermione wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"Oh, le roi des cons," she snipped, and Tom let out a soft huff of a laugh, and it seemed now that all of his attention was on her.

"Ce n'est pas très gentil de ta part," he replied, amused. Hermione glared at him, she didn't particularly care if she was being nice.

"C'est dommage, je déteste les racistes." she turned to her mother, not giving Tom a chance to respond. Her maman had been sitting silent and watching the back and forth between them with a pensive look on her face.

"Maman, I was thinking of using the rest of the afternoon to go to Diagon Alley, I wanted to go to Flourish and Blotts, the bookstore, to look something up," she pleaded, knowing that she'd probably be denied. It could be quick, she found out from Tom during lunch that they'd manage to connect the fireplace in maman's office to the floo network.

"No, you know I don't like the idea of you going out alone, ah-" she held up a finger before Hermione could interject, "-I do not care how capable you believe you are, you stay safe by avoiding danger, not purposely making yourself a target," she finished, before also finishing her tea.

"I don't mean to interrupt, but I have nothing pressing today, I could escort Hermione to and from Diagon Alley," Tom chimed in, and before Hermione could viciously reject it, her mother stood up, and turned to Tom.

"That would be lovely, Tom, are you certain?" she asked, to which she eyed Hermione, prompting her to remember their earlier conversation, and so she mentally conceded.

"Of course, it's of no trouble," he answered, completely respectful.

"Very well, before you go then, I have something for you," she held a finger up, indicating for them to wait, they did and watched as she walked towards the Christmas tree at the corner of the room and root around the gifts at the bottom for a moment. She came back and handed Tom a small box, who took it gently.

"I was going to wait until Christmas morning to give you this, but I find it more prudent to give it to you now since you'll be joining Hermione," she explained as he opened it unhurriedly. He lifted the lid and pulled out a Gringotts key, he lifted his gaze to her mother, surprised.  
  
"Thank you, but, if I may ask, how did you acquire this?" he asked curiously, her mother raised an eyebrow at him and tapped the side of her nose, before chiming:

"Pretend you belong somewhere, and no one will question you." before turning away and making to lead them toward her office. Hermione observed how his face was impassive, but she recognized a quiet fury in his eyes. She distracted him by addressing him, saying she would meet him in her mother's office and that she just needed to grab her cloak.

Once in the office, she followed Tom through the floo to the entrance of Diagon Alley, where there was a line of fireplaces. Stumbling out, he waved his wand at her, and she witnessed all the ashes on her shoulders disappear, she murmured a small thanks, following him to the bank to pick up enough coin for her ventures. She and Tom were separated as they were escorted to their personal vaults and met back at the front of the bank before heading towards Flourish and Blotts. She left his side once in the store, she grabbed a basket and began searching for the magical law section, she figured that she'd need all three years of the curriculum, at least, she wasn't positive if she needed to retake the OWL for it, though thought it would make sense because her own OWL had been tailored for the laws of France. For a few moments, she read a small compendium to get an idea of the British system, her basket at her feet.

"Magical Law?" she jumped, momentarily forgetting that he was even with her, as she had tried to leave him after entering the store. Before turning to him, an idea struck her, she could find out from him what she needed. So she decided to engage him.

"Yes, do you take it?" she asked, glancing at him before returning the compendium and reaching for another book.

"I do, though I didn't think you would be interested, else wise, would you not be in the class? It's not very big, so it's a mix of all the houses," he replied, eyeing her curiously. Hermione pursed her lips and she thought heard him inhale sharply, but she responded at the same moment.

"I took it for my year five, and half of year six before the attack, but when I transferred to Hogwarts, my Cultural Humanities enrollment had me split between the muggle and wizarding studies, and so I was unable to continue taking Magical Law," she explained, "when I tried to look into switching, it seems the Hogwarts elective is only open to those who have taken the prerequisite years in Hogwarts only, I'm assuming it has to do with it being tailor-made to the laws of the isles." she finished, shelving yet another book and picking out another.

Tom hummed, and leaned against the shelf, it brought him down a couple of inches and Hermione was grateful she didn't have to crane her neck to look at him.

"Are you interested in a career in Law?" he asked, turning his gaze from her face to the book in her hands.

"Well, I wasn't certain at first, because I'm not sure how long I am personally staying in Britain, with the wars and all, but if they don't end soon, I will have to pick something, so why not a career that I could care for? I want to actually do some good in the world, and becoming a barrister seems like a choice path since I don't know too much about the ministries," she rambled while one hand held one book, and her other hand had another open in her palm, as she flipped through it. Tom was silent for a while, so she looked up to find an almost ferocious look in his eyes.

"What do you mean 'you don't know how long you're staying in Britain'?" his voice was low and smooth as he asked, and Hermione felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. She blinked, startled, before righting herself.

"Well, eventually I want to go home; when, no, IF the wars end." she titled her head a bit, regarding him, "I miss my island, Tom, and not to mention the raging discrimination I've been subjected to here due to my blood status! Any life I make here will be difficult at best, or see me murdered at worst," she ranted, becoming more enraged as she kept remembering how bad the socio-political atmosphere truly was here.

Tom breathed in and out deeply as if attempting to calm himself. Hermione squinted at him, she couldn't deny her need for being confrontational, her mamie had always warned her that it would get her in trouble.

"Why do you ask? It's not like you care for muggleborns," she asked, defensive that he'd even been angry for a second. What right did he have to be angry?

"No, I do not," he answered honestly and held up a finger to continue as she'd opened her mouth to viciously argue.

"However, that is because I am, admittedly, a self-invested person, and I have never had a muggleborn within my sphere of influence. You are now apart of that sphere of influence, so I'm interested in knowing your plans," he finished, and Hermione immediately scoffed at him.

"That's ridiculous, you dislike muggleborns but will make an exception for me since you basically have no choice," she stated, annoyed as he could actually peace out of her life any day now, if he's so bothered, and she'd be perfectly content. He stared at her for a minute, before apparently coming to a decision.

"Yes, that's it exactly," he replied, unashamed. He plucked the books out of her hands, ignoring her small disgruntled 'hey!'. He put them back before picking out three other books, then skimmed his long finger along a couple of different spines before grabbing another thin book and plopping all four in her arms.

"These are what you'll need to start with, I've included fifth year since you may have to retake the OWL for it," he said as he walked off towards a caged off area with an attendant beside it. Hermione dumped the books into the basket at her feet, she picked it up and followed him, watching as he handed his wand to the attendant to confirm his age, she did the same and followed him in. She decided to let go of their previous conversation, for now.

"Is this some type of dark arts section?" she asked peering at the books, angling her basket into the crook of her arm, she plucked one from the shelf, "but this one is about gardening," she stated, reading the title. Tom chuckled, pulling something down from a high shelf.

"There is nothing remotely dark in here, if a book simply has the barest mention of blood and sex magic or necromancy, then its shoved in here," he began, flipping through the book in his hand before placing it back.

"That," he pointed at the gardening book in her hand, "probably has all three, since plants are living things, to help them live, flourish, and grow, there are all types of magic used to assure all of that. If you want the truly dark stuff, you'd need to go to Knockturn Alley," he explained, snatching the book out of her hand, flipping through it before stopping on a particular page, and with a smirk, placed it back in her hands.

She looked at the page, yelping at the graphic moving image of a couple in mid-coitus, and a plant growing beside them. Her face beat red, she snapped the book shut and shoved it back on the shelf where she found it as Tom laughed. She glared at him.

"Yes, that was real mature of you," she grumbled under her breath, face still hot. She decided to change the subject.

"So what are you looking for here?" she asked, nodding towards the shelf he'd been cherry-picking from, she took a closer look at the books on it and glanced at him.

"Warding? For where?" she asked, as he grabbed another book and flipped through the pages.

"Riddle Manor needs wards, I've already discussed it with your mother." apparently satisfied with the book he was currently reading, he snapped it shut and tucked it under his arm, before moving towards the doorway of the section, towards the checkout.

"You can't do anything muggle repelling, and can't turn it fully into a wizarding household either, so just protection wards?" she asked, understand his idea. He hummed noncommittally as they paid for their purchases and left the store

For the next hour, Tom followed Hermione as she purchased gifts for her friends. For Harry and Ginny, she'd gotten them broom polishing kits each. For Ron, new Keeper gloves, because she's heard him say his were becoming quite thin, and she figured Ginny would share the broom polish. She knew Hannukah had just recently passed on the seventeenth, but she picked out a leather bound journal for Géraldine all the same, she'd send it immediately when she returned home, instead of waiting for Christmas, because that was redundant. They passed a chocolaterie, and she purchased chocolates for Lavender, Parvati, Seamus, Dean, Neville and Sophie, as a thank you for lending her their notes.

They stopped by Twilfitt and Tattings to place an order for dress robes as well as some all occasion and casual robes, she managed to sneak a small gift for Tom, among a couple of other things for herself. After he'd been measured and checked out, he waited by the door and didn't seem to be paying attention anyhow, so she was sure she got away with it. Not that she thought he absolutely deserved a gift, because he'd been horrible to her on many occasions, but if she were going to stay on his good side, if it actually existed, then maybe a Christmas gift would go a long way. 

They were on their way back when Hermione smelled something sweet, her feet led her to what looked like an ice cream shop. She wasn't sure if it was her rational brain or her menstrual brain that decided she needed ice cream right that second but walked towards the entrance anyhow. She heard a sigh from Tom.

"Dinner is in an hour." it was his almost condescending tone that solidified her decision since she apparently lived now to spite him, she entered the shop, hearing him follow her, sighing through his nose.

'He does that a lot, he needs to not stress so much over what other people do,' she thought looking at the flavours and decided she'd throw him a bone.

"The last time I had ice cream was in Martinique, there was a small restaurant that served it in Fort-de-France, and it was only ever a treat." she looked over to him, surprised at the hungry look on his face.

'Maybe he wants ice cream after all,' she shrugged, before continuing.

"I remember that place was always packed with people because the weather back home was always humid, and they had flavours like mango, dragonfruit, coconut, and dulce de leche, which was brought over from the Latin American countries, my mamie used to try to copy the recipes, and even though we had an icebox, it'd only last for an hour at most. So honestly, I'm a simple girl, if I see ice cream, I get ice cream," she shrugged before turning back to continue reading the flavours.

There were a lot of strange ones, like elderberry and aniseed, that she immediately passed over, when she was interrupted by the server.  
  
"Ma'am, did you say you were from the Caribbean?" he asked, he was a skinny man with mousy brown hair under his white pointed server hat. At her nod, he smiled.  
  
"We actually had gotten a shipment of coconuts as a mistake two days ago, and Mr. Fortescue decided to make ice cream out of them anyway, we just haven't put it out yet because it didn't have a name, did you want to try it?" he asked, and Hermione beamed.  
  
"Oh, absolutely, that would be lovely." he nodded and left for the back, coming out a minute later with a giant tub floating behind him, he placed it in an empty spot beside the English toffee flavour. Opening it, he grabbed a small wooden spoon, wrapping the handle in a napkin and dug the tip in to get a small scoop before handing it over to her.  
  
She tried it, and it made her want to cry, because it tasted incredible, and it reminded her of home, making her feel badly homesick. She looked back at the server, and smiled, asking for a double scoop serving of that, before turning back to Tom, who was watching her intently, she eyed him playfully.  
  
"Hmm, you seem like either a lemon sherbet, or a pistachio type of person, I would almost say coffee, but I don't think I've ever seen you drink the beverage," she declared, before turning back and accepting her ice cream from the server.  
  
"No, it certainly wouldn't be coffee, not when I'm an avid tea drinker, like a proper brit," he joked, turning to the server and ordering Pistachio, she went to where the cash register was and paid for their order, before leaving, but turning back towards the server.  
  
"Tell Mr. Fortescue if he decides to keep the flavour, maybe go for Coco Caribbean as a name, I think it has the right amount of escapism that people want right about now," she suggested, the server nodded, impressed before wishing them a good day.  
  
She left with Tom, both eating their treats and making their way to the fireplaces when something else caught her eye and she gasped. Tom stopped and swivelled to look at her, but she was already gone, she'd hurriedly finished the rest of her ice cream and vanished the cardboard dish and wooden spoon before almost running into the shop.  
  
Inside the shop, she was eye to eye with the most magnificent creature she'd had ever seen, he was large and magnificent with an orange fur coat and a squashed face, she heard Tom come up behind her, could almost hear him berate her, but she couldn't bring herself to care as she brought her hand up for the cat to sniff.  
  
"Careful Miss, he's not a friendly fellow, kind of old and crotchety-" A shop attendant trying to warn her trailed off as the cat rubbed its head against her knuckles. Tom sighed behind her, before wandering off into the store.  
  
"He's gorgeous, how much?" she addressed the shop attendant, who sputtered and listed a price.  
  
"I'll take him, and I will also need a carrier, dishes, food, a bed, oh and maybe 4 different toys?" She detailed, pulling out her bag of money and starting to count galleons on the counter. The shop assistant's eyes widened and he rushed off to grab everything for her, a couple of minutes later shrinking it all into a bag for her. She shrunk the bag further and put it into her handbag with the rest of her purchases for the day, before opening her arms to the cat, allowing him to jump up into them.  
  
"What's your name, handsome?" she asked the cat, searching around his neck for a collar but couldn't find one.  
  
"Oh he doesn't like collars, and his name is Crookshanks, his owner was an older witch who passed on a couple of years ago, it might be prudent to let him hunt once in a while too because we all kind of think he's half kneazel," replied the shop assistant, she nodded, before going to find Tom, while Crookshanks continued purring under her chin.

She found him where the reptiles were, or specifically, the snakes, kneeling before a tank that held a single snake with iridescent mother of pearl scales, and a small jewel upon its diamond-shaped head. He was also hissing at the snake, talking to it.  
  
'Oh, he's a parselmouth, that's neat,' she thought vaguely, trying to recall what she'd read about them, but only coming up with what she knew of groups in either South America and South East Asia, though she specifically remembered a large community that apparently lived in Brazil. She didn't think there were parselmouths in Europe, though she recalled reading through Hogwarts: A History, that Salazar Slytherin had been a parselmouth, but with a name like Salazar, she figured he might have some Spanish in him, or be Spanish himself with an anglicized surname. She recalled that Spain had been ruled by the Moors for some many years, she tried to mentally do the calculations, of who conquered who and when, but since she couldn't recall the dates at the moment, she left it alone. He hadn't seemed to notice her, so she decided to say something.

"Are you going to get her?" Hermione asked, reading the small note on the screen indicating she was female.  
  
He startled slightly, and turned to her, giving her a quizzical look.  
  
"Were you listening?" he asked, almost curiously. Hermione nodded.  
  
"Well, yeah, you didn't seem to notice I was here, I didn't know you were a parselmouth," she replied, looking down to scratch Crookshanks on his head.  
  
"You aren't afraid of snakes? It says she'll grow to about sixteen feet," he asked, though she thought she heard another question in there but decided to answer both anyway.  
  
"Not unless they're venomous, which it says right here that she isn't," she replied, pointing to the informational parchment attached to the glass, "also did you forget that I am from the Caribbean? There are groups of parselmouths all over South America, and snakes are absolutely everywhere. Even back home, we had our own breed of pit viper, called the Martinique Lancehead," she rambled, a bit self-conscious of her habit of spewing information. She began to scratch under the cat's chin, and if possible, he began purring even louder.

"Doesn't the flag of Martinique have snakes on it?" he asked, and Hermione almost hissed at him.  
  
"No," she clipped, "that is not our flag, we prefer the tricolour of France instead." she continued to pet Crookshanks, almost aggressively.  
  
"Why is that?" he asked, as he waved down the shop assistant. She was half tempted to say that it was none of his business, but that would put him in a foul mood, and she didn't want to deal with him when he was like that, so she calmed herself down and explained.  
  
"Because historically, it was used by ships during the Atlantic Slave Trade, it's controversial at best, and too many other countries mistake it for our national flag," He nodded, giving the impression that he understood. He set up a purchase for the snake with the shop assistant, effectively ending the conversation.

When they were walking towards the floo, she'd asked Tom what the snake's name was, but apparently she didn't have one. She looked up to see it curled around his neck, under his coat, and so she suggested the name Kaa, thinking of the character from The Jungle Book, though from the flash of annoyance on his face, he knew the reference, but didn't vehemently disagree as she expected him to. They made it back to the manor with minutes to spare, her mother waiting on the other side with her foot tapping, who took one look of the animals, and shook her head, sighing in exasperation before leaving for the dining hall without them.

  
All in all, it was a pretty good day, even including present company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it would be pretty tone deaf of me to not write something acknowledging the troubles the US is going through right now. I am not American, nor am I black, but I stand with you, I can say that wholeheartedly. 
> 
> Even though I am not American, however, that does not mean that I ignore the troubles there. I know my own country, Canada, is no better with it's rampant racism, we just tend to hide it better. Our treatment of our own POC and our own First Nations, Métis, and Inuit people is appalling. It should go without saying, but I'll say it anyway. Black Lives Matter. Black Children Matter. Black Futures Matter. 
> 
> Since it's against the TOS, I won't be posting any links for charities or donation pools, but I've heard there are a few fundraisers or charities you can check out  
> The Official George Floyd Memorial Fund - self explanatory  
> Reclaim the Block - a Minneapolis organization  
> Black Visions - A Minnesota organization dedicated to Black Livelihood.
> 
> for my own Canadians:  
> Black Lives Matter Canada 
> 
> If you want to help, but can't afford to, don't stress it, we're all being hit by this pandemic. Talk about it, post about it, if you can, small things can help too.
> 
> Anyhow, when I write these characters, I am trying to keep their personalities in character as much as I can, but also, I find there is a small grace to depicting flaws, messiness, and behaviours that we've all been guilty of. I try to keep in mind that they are all (exception of adults) 18 still, and therefore not as mature as they'd like to think they are, ya'know? (I know at 18 I thought I was the shit, but looking back now, I was hella foolish) So, I'm sorry, but you won't find a teenage god-like Tom in this fic, or an overpowered, perfect at everything Hermione. Also, time skips ahoy.
> 
> imma make 'em stumble, and make mistakes. cause they be kids. I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	15. Chapter 14 - Well, F*ck

Chapter 14 - Knockturn Alley – December 31st, 1943

  
Tom wandered Knockturn Alley, casually sidestepping hags and suspicious characters with almost practiced ease, looking for a certain bookstore, Sphinx Scrolls, that Antonin had told him about. It was a store run by an Egyptian witch with an abhorrence for censorship, that had originally been stationed within Diagon Alley until laws dictating which kinds of magic should be made available to the public was slashed almost in half by the majority light faction in 1936. She'd had to relocate almost immediately after, opening shop in Knockturn, Tom had only ever seen it in curious passing, but today was a day he was purposely seeking it out.

When at Flourish and Blotts almost two weeks ago with Hermione, he'd grabbed a book in a show that he'd found what he was looking for, however, he hadn't. Nearly all ward rituals sold within Diagon Alley could be broken by the slightest provocation, and they weren't nearly as malleable as Tom needed them to be, and he needed to be sure any warding on Riddle Manor would not impede any of his plans.

He thought back to when break first started, he had asked Helen to give him a couple of days to decide whether he wanted to help her little scheme. At first, he'd been angry that she had looped him into some kind of deal in exchange for a lifestyle that should have been his in the first place, but while angry, he respected Helen for the play, because it was no less than something he, himself, would have done.

By Sunday night he'd come up with his contract, detailing the level of control he would have over his finances, and the amount of work input needed from him for the company. If he wanted to leave Riddle manor, and purchase his own property, he would be allowed to, if Helen 'perished' unexpectedly, with no 'heir' willing to take the helm of the company, then Tom was within his rights to sell it. Helen had agreed to all of it, with the added note that, should he sell, that he would always ensure Hermione's continued financial security. Which he agreed to without much fuss, he had no intention of letting that witch out of his sight, though her mother, however, did not need to know that.

It was when he'd been handed his Gringotts key that very next day, after the tailor, in front of Hermione, who surprisingly slept the entire previous day, that Tom realized he'd been had, again. Helen knew he'd agree and had planned accordingly. Her gesture and little remark had also told him that she knew of his beliefs, possibly through her daughter, and she openly mocked him for them.

If he hadn't been so impressed, and otherwise distracted by other present company, he would have killed her. As it stood, he had a lot to learn apparently from Helen Riddle, and it was a realization that filled him with revulsion. The idea that he, a wizard descended from Salazar Slytherin, needed to learn anything from a muggle was insulting at best.

His hours in Diagon Alley later that day had been truly what had saved his mood, that is until he found out that Hermione may not even want to stay in Britain. The idea was unacceptable to him, so he'd decided that moment that he would help her receive her Magical Law NEWT, to entice her to stay, at least, until he could find a more permanent solution. His biggest consolation, he had to admit, was Kaa, the small Indian Python he picked up that day, she was crossbred with a Lotus Snake, a magical breed of serpent native to Tibet, which both explained her colouring and the jewel upon her head. He was originally annoyed by the name Hermione suggested, having read a copy of The Jungle Book himself, a rather beat down copy, as he remembered it, years ago at Wools. When he tried to come up with any other name, however, he could think of nothing, so he went with her suggestion all while telling himself that it was fitting anyhow.

Kaa had many sarcastic remarks, she wrapped herself loosely around his collar, under his shirts and robes and proceeded to provide a running commentary of the world around him as she heard it. He thought back once again to the day he purchased her, he had assumed Hermione to still be occupied at the front of the store with her ugly beast of a cat, when he had been speaking to Kaa.

The idea that Hermione now knew he was a parselmouth and that she was generally unbothered by it both comforted and unsettled him. It was his claim to his ancestry, to Salazar Slytherin, but what importance does his ancestry hold to a foreign person? People his entire life had either been disturbed by his talent, or in awe, and Hermione saw it as interesting, at best, and that unsettled him. That she was undisturbed unlike many others had been, was what comforted him, but also it severely undermined his self-importance.

Unfortunately, on top of commentating on his daily life, Kaa had the audacity to call him out blatantly on his attraction to Hermione, claiming that his smell tasted different when she was around, and she was around a lot. The last two weeks he'd been helping her power through Magical Law, at the pace she was at now, she'd would be able to take the OWL before they went back for their second semester. He'd be impressed if she managed to sit the NEWT at the same time as him, on top of her other classes, but with the dedication he'd witnessed from her, he almost expected nothing less.

He turned a corner, seeing the signage up ahead for the bookstore, at last. The alley wasn't very well lit, with the roofs of the building almost touching overhead, causing it to be dark throughout the day, and in colder weather caused a bit of a wind tunnel through the street. He picked up his pace, wincing at the sharp cold air that brushed his face.

He thought back to both Christmas and Yule, both had come and gone, he'd received many gifts from Knights and classmates alike, though he'd had to throw out some chocolates laced with love potion from a few heavy-handed girls. Of all the gifts he'd received, though, his preferred one was resting around his neck currently, as it was from Hermione. It was a green scarf, spun of soft cashmere, he hadn't noticed her buy it so he was surprised to find it gifted to him, as well surprised that she deigned to give him anything at all. He, of course, had gotten her something small, but hadn't bothered writing his name on it, he felt she'd know it was from him.  
  
This was the first year Tom had sent 'gifts' in return to his knights, as well. He'd gotten the idea from Hermione, who'd been buying a leather journal for one of her little friends, he returned the next day and bought one for each of his knights, because, so far this semester, he hadn't been able to plan any meetings, being unable to work entirely around Shacklebolt; not to mention, it had been prudent to lay low anyhow after 'The Big Hex'. Each journal was charmed for each of his knights and could only be opened and read by them, so it belayed the need for meetings, at least for the rest of the academic year.

He'd also attended the annual Malfoy Yule celebration on the twenty-fifth, though he'd been in a right foul mood by the time it had rolled around, as he hadn't been able to find Hermione anywhere in the manor that day. It was the first year attending that he hadn't needed Professor Slughorn to escort him, as he had previous years, it being the only way to leave the castle during winter hols. Slughorn being the social climber that he was, had always been overjoyed at the opportunity to attend one of Magical Britain's biggest events of the year, especially when all he had to do was escort his star pupil to and fro.

This year, Tom had attempted to avoid Bella, as she had still been cross with him for kicking her out of his bed post-coitus, which admittedly, was not his best moment. It had all been for naught, however, as by the end of the night, she had ended up in his bed at Malfoy Manor anyhow.

He'd been mildly displeased the next day when he arrived back at Riddle manor that Hermione was still nowhere to be found. Upon questioning Helen at lunch, he'd been told that she'd requested the car to attend mass at St. Michaels in Malton proper on both days. He'd been surprised, as he hadn't pegged the witch to be particularly devout, it felt like every day he was learning something new about her.

He was more disgusted that she aligned herself with that particular non-magical faith at all, remembering the days Mrs. Cole had forced all the orphans of Wool's to trudge on foot to St. Paul's Cathedral every Sunday, he hated it as much then as he hated the idea of it now.

He could count on one hand the number of purebloods who practiced faith, notably, the Shafiq family was Muslim, the Crouchs were Protestant, the Abbotts and Yaxleys were Jewish, and although not apart of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the Potters and Patils practiced Hinduism. The rest without any significant muggle ancestry practiced some variation of the Celtic faith, with the exception of Orion Black, who unlike the rest of the Black family, chose to personally observe his mother's Shinto faith on top of the Celtic traditions of his paternal family. Tom originally hadn't practiced anything, but after years of paying lip service, he'd come to officially adopt the Celtic faith as his own, as it had been explained to him that full observance would be expected of him as Lord Slytherin.

He finally came upon his destination, entering the shop, causing the bell at the top of the door to chime, he immediately took in his surroundings. It was a dark shop with burnt umber walls, large tapestries were hung up, and there was a pervading smell of sandalwood. He headed off towards the scrolls and books, scowling slightly at the lack of light making it difficult to read the titles. He squinted, not wanting to be kicked out for a lumos, he didn't know if anything was light-sensitive here, and he'd rather not find out.

He flipped through a few books, making a list in his mind of what he wanted. He wanted initially to make Riddle manor into a wizarding home, but that would require ridding the muggle staff, and finding elves, something he had a feeling Hermione would be horrified at. He was well aware that they were essentially enslaved here in the isles, and he reasoned that the only reason he hadn't heard Hermione's opinion on the matter was that she didn't know yet, especially considering her clipped reaction to his insinuation of snake flag being the national flag of Martinique and her reasoning for said reaction. He did not doubt that when she did find out, her indignation would be stellar to behold.

As for what he could do, he wanted to make the wards based on sacrifice, maybe a couple of the muggles from Little Hangleton, Helen and Hermione needn't know, but sacrificial wards were the strongest. He wanted to ensure, most importantly, that he was the master of the wards, and that he would be the one to control them. He wanted the wards to be able to tell him who was in the manor, and when they left. He wanted to be the one to decide who could leave, and who could not.

Finally, finding a few books to his taste, he gathered them into his arms and was about to leave, when one more small book caught his attention. He plucked it from the shelf, and flipped through it, noting that there were some truly vile rituals in this one; he looked once more at the book's title, 'Of Love and Loyalty', he would have scoffed at the fanciful nonsense had he not just seen some excellent ideas within its pages. There were rituals to keep one loyal, rituals for marking, and rituals that connected anyone he wanted to himself. He thought of his knights, and the idea of having a mark that only his most loyal would bear, and then also thought of a certain witch with his mark, and it was all it took to include the book within his purchases.

He checked out his purchases with the shop's owner and proceeded to head back towards the Diagon Alley floo. After all, it was both New Years' Eve as well as his birthday, he was eighteen today and he had an invitation to the celebration hosted by the Black Family that he did not want to miss.

Riddle Manor – Same Day

  
Hermione was going through all her outfits and stressing about what to wear. Tonight her mother would be attending a New Years' gala as the representative for Riddle Arms, which would be attended by many titled families, war Generals and Captains, and many politicians, and Tom had plans to go to a celebration held by one of his snooty pureblood friends. Hermione on the other hand had been invited to the Burrow, the Weasley home for a new years party.

She thought back to how fast the break was going by, Christmas had gone by in a flash, and she'd received a great number of gifts. From Ron she'd received hand-knitted gloves, they were quite detailed and warm, he'd written in his letter that it had taken him forever to learn his mum's technique, and he worried that he didn't do it justice, which was nonsense because Hermione absolutely adored them and she'd written back to him immediately telling him so.

From Harry, she'd been gifted a gorgeous Britain's Wizengamot History Encyclopedia set, which she was finding very useful as it had detailed anecdotes on cases that laws had been created for, and if she wanted to pursue a career in law, she was going to have to learn the governing body explicitly. When she'd written to all of her friends on her decided potential career path, Harry had been incredibly supportive, he'd even offered to get her in contact with his grandmother Euphemia Potter, who ran her firm in Wizarding Britain, specifically located in Mystic Alley. Hermione had originally protested the blatant nepotism, but he'd scoffed and said if everybody else was doing it, then she was only doing herself a disservice by rejecting the practice, and so she reluctantly acceded. She would be meeting Euphemia the Friday before break finished, with Harry, to see if her firm was interested in having her as an intern, and she was beyond nervous.

From Ginny, she'd gotten a pan of homemade fudge, her mother's recipe, claiming in advance that she was no great baker and that if she died from eating them then she was not responsible, since she'd been warned. Hermione tried one and was incessed to send a howler to scold her for trying to scare her because they tasted incredible, she was sure that went over swimmingly with the rest of the Weasleys.

Géraldine had sent her fresh-baked Challah, which had been divine, Hermione had written her thankful that she made tea finally enjoyable for her, dunking pieces into a nice cup of earl grey was Hermione's new favourite snack. It was kind of her to send it, even when she knew Géraldine did not celebrate Christmas.

Lastly, she had a gift that had no name of the giver, but Hermione thought it might be from Tom, however, since he didn't say anything she refused to as well. It was a thick silver bangle in the shape of a snake embedded with tiny emeralds that curled around her wrist. It was really lovely, so she wore it often, including now, as she admired it on her wrist.

Currently, she had on a dress but thought it too formal, so she undressed again, eyeing the mess of outfits scattered around her. She rummaged through her wardrobe once more and exclaimed an 'aha!' while pulling out one of the pair of trousers that had been delivered two days after Christmas with the rest of her clothing. She wondered if it was too casual, but recalled Ginny wearing trousers all the time while in civvies, so she shrugged and slipped them on. They were black and lightly fitted around her waist, but otherwise loose around her legs, to match, she shoved on some loafers and pulled on a light blue button-down blouse and tucked it in.

She surveyed herself in the mirror, still thinking something was missing. She looked to where her belts and ties were, and in a moment of clarity, grabbed a pair of suspenders. She flipped them over her shoulder and clipped them to her trousers and began to work on her hair, which had been drying in a nightgown from washing it earlier. She ran Sleekeazy's generously through her hair, combing in flat against her head and gathering her hair into a bun at the base of her neck. She combed a wave through the hair rested against the side of her forehead, and held the nightgown down against it so that it would become moulded like that.

Once satisfied, she grabbed a light coat and headed off towards her maman's office. She was nervous, it was the first time she was meeting the extended Weasley family, not to mention the Potters and Lupin-Blacks who would also be there. All these people were so immersed in the British wizarding community, that it made her feel self-conscious as a refugee. Well, at least Géraldine would be there with her guardian, so she wouldn't be completely alone.

Upon her destination, she looked to make sure no one was watching her, it wouldn't do to have to explain how she'd disappeared from her mother's office, after all, and with that, she entered. The office was empty, as both Tom and her mother had left already, so Hermione locked the door, knowing her mother had a key. She looked towards a shelf of liquor that her mother had, and thinking it might be impolite to show up empty-handed, looked for two bottles of champagne, snatching them and cradling them in her arms, she then went to grab a handful of floo powder off the mantle, and with a shout of 'The Burrow' she stepped into the flames.

  
The atmosphere she entered was warm and loud, it took her a moment to gain her bearings and palm her wand, whispering the charm to remove the ashes from her clothes, before she found herself in a pair of arms, and then another, and then another. She laughed as Ron lifted Harry, Ginny and herself and spun them around.

“Aye Ronnie's a strong as an erumpet!” chimed a voice from behind them.

“Looks like one too!” a similar voice called out right after the first one.

“Oi, Fred! George! Bugger off!” hollered Ron, face and ears turning red as he let them all down. Hermione wedged herself out of Ginny and Harry's hold, giving them a beaming smile before turning to Ron.

“Oh don't listen to them, you look perfectly dashing,” she chimed, before turning back to Ginny, she held up the two bottles of champagne and placed them within the other girl's arms, ignoring Ron's sputtering and her own warm cheeks.

“I felt like I should bring something, so I brought two of these, I hope it's enough,” she said shyly, mentally berating herself for not thinking of it earlier. Before Ginny could reply, each bottle was snatched out of her arms by two identical looking men, both rather tall and lanky with short red hair and an identical amount of freckles.

The one on the left whistled, while the one on the right nodded appreciatively. Both surveying the bottles with a mock critical eye.

“This is some fancy stuff,” chimed the one on the left, turning the bottle in his hands.

“Very fancy, who are you, fancy girl? Is that a French accent I detect?” asked the one on the right.

“Right you are Gred, it was, could it be?” the left bounced back, and Hermione felt herself become dizzy from looking between the two.

“I'd say so, Forge, seems we have 'The Great Slapper' in our humble abode,” grinned the right. Hermione groaned and Ginny took the opportunity to step in, bringing her hands onto Hermione's shoulders.

“Enough you numpties! Hermione, the one on the left is Fred, and the one on the right is George-” she held up a finger to silence the twins, “-no, I am not wrong,” she finished smugly.

“Dear Gin, the only one who can tell us apart and ruin our jokes,” sighed Fred, George nodded in agreement.

“Killjoy, really,” bemoaned George, dramatically.

“They're lying, their partners can tell them apart easily,” Ron flatlined behind them. Both twins gasped in outrage, and were about to vehemently refuse when Ginny called out of the sitting room:

“Oi! Angie! Lee! Come collect your two berks!”

Not long later, two people walked in, a man and a woman, both with dark skin. The man, who she assumed was Lee, had an impressive head full of locs that were short, and the woman, Angie, had long braids. Hermione wondered how she'd did it and vowed to ask by the end of the night. Both greeted and introduced themselves before grabbing their respective twin and dragged them back to, what Hermione assumed, was the kitchen.

She followed Ron, Ginny and Harry, surprised at how crowded it was. Hermione first met Weasley matriarch, Molly, who instantly welcomed her into her home, thanking her for the champagne and asking if she'd eaten already. She was a rather tall plump woman, with rosy cheeks and bright hair like all her children's. Understanding in that instant that 'no' wasn't a sufficient answer, she grabbed a pumpkin pastie on a napkin at her behest and began nibbling on it.

She met the Weasley patriarch right after, a friendly man that was also quite tall with thinning red hair and horn-framed glasses. She supposed she should have figured the Weasley parents would both be of considerable height, what with how tall all of the Weasley children she'd met were. He instantly began asking her about all kinds of muggle inventions, like the 'aeroplane' and 'automobile'. Hermione unfortunately didn't have very many answers for him, explaining to him that until this year she lived on a small island in the Caribbean.

Soon after, she met the Potters, James, a dark-skinned Indian man with hazel eyes, who was being considered for Head Auror when Rufus Scrimgeour retired, and Lily, with her pale skin, dark red hair and vibrant green eyes, she recognized from her time in St. Mungos.  
  
“I know you!” exclaimed Hermione, surprised. Lily smiled warmly.  
  
“Yes, I am Healer-in-Charge of the Janus Thickey Ward, or spell damage ward at St. Mungos. I oversaw all of the cursed muggleborns back in the fall, yourself included,” she replied, shaking Hermione's hand.  
  
“Thank you for that, by the way,” Hermione piped, dumbfounded, before they were interrupted by a small child reaching up to grab her Lily's hand.

“Mum! Harry! Introduce me too!” a small girl with light brown skin, hazel eyes and dark red hair chirped.

“Oh, right, Hermione, this is my baby sister, Ehimaya,” Harry replied, ruffling his hands through the girl's hair, ignoring her 'I'm not a baby!'.

“You never said you had a sister,” she told Harry, and he looked confused at her.  
  
“I didn't? Huh, must have slipped my mind,” Harry started, continuing the muss the girl's hair, “you see, she's just so tiny, I forget she exists,” he finished, wincing as the little girl, 'Maya' as she apparently preferred to be called, pinched the back of his hand.

She next met Harry's uncles, Sirius Lupin-Black and Remus Lupin-Black. Sirius immediately congratulated her on her arm strength, to which she jokingly replied that Malfoy weighed so little that anyone would look impressive smacking him, which drew a loud cackle out of him. Remus on the other hand was perfectly polite and acted a bit exasperated of Sirius, but she could tell he was smitten with his husband. There was also something savage in his eyes, as they were a peculiar gold colour, and it reminded her that these two mages were ICW contracted hit-wizards, and therefore were both extremely dangerous.

The most surprising development of the evening, was when she saw Géraldine in the corner with Professeur Bernard, conversing with Professor Weasley and...Professeure Delacour?  
  
“Professeure Delacour! Que fais-tu ici?” she exclaimed, and at hearing her title being called, Fleur Delacour whipped around, a dazzling smile breaking onto her face once her eyes landed on Hermione.

“Mademoiselle Granger! Tu es là! Comment ça va?” she asked, grabbing her arms and leaning in to kiss both cheeks. Mrs. Weasley interrupted.

“Hermione dear? Do you know our Fleur?” she asked, a curious expression on her face. She could see the rest of the room begin to listen and instantly became self-conscious of her French background.

“Oui- ah, I mean, yes, she was my Défense professeure at Beauxbatons, but more importantly, it was Professeure Delacour who saved me from some Grindelwald soldiers who cornered me during the attack last February,” she explained, “a lot worse would have happened to me if she didn't come when she did,” she glanced up in time for Fleur to pull her into a hug, which Hermione returned. Mrs. Weasley had a new appreciative look in her eye for Fleur that Hermione didn't really understand, but decided it wasn't her business anyway.

She greeted her friend and Professeur Bernard, who she found out was able to find a job making potions for St. Mungos now, she wished them both a belated Happy Hanukkah as well as a Happy New Year. She talked with Fleur for a while and was surprised to find that she was engaged to her Ancient Runes professor, and Ron's oldest brother, Bill. Fleur told her of how she'd met Bill while smuggling over all of the records of every nouveau-sang from France to Dumbledore in Scotland, that they'd hit it off immediately and quickly got engaged.  
  
“When it iz war, you find that you do not want to waste time!” she chirped, cupping Bill's face and giving him a peck on the lips.

She didn't get to meet one other Weasley brother, Charlie, who was apparently in Romania on a dragon reserve and couldn't make it due to Grindelwald soldiers attempting to raid it the previous night.

For the rest of the night, the group of them played a variety of cards, which eventually turned into drinking games, this included Fred, George and both their spouses Lee and Angelina, who she found out eventually that she uses synthetic materials of her own making to braid her hair with and offered to do Hermione's hair another time, to which she ecstatically accepted.

It was nearing midnight when she found herself outside with Ron, it had gotten too hot inside and she'd wanted some fresh air, and he'd offered to go with her. The silence was nice but she wanted him to say something, anything. He'd been so distant on the train home, but she thought that maybe by tonight, whatever had been bothering him would be over.

“Listen, 'Mione,” he always shortened her name, and though she would have hated it from anyone else, when he did it, it made her feel warm. She turned to him, prompting him to continue.  
  
“I'm sorry I acted like a berk on the train ride home, I just...” he turned away and looked up at the sky as if losing his nerve of whatever he was about to say. Hermione decided right then, that she was just gonna go for it, thinking it was the New Year and if not now then when?

“-I like you,” she blurted out before she could stop herself, “and I agreed to go to Slughorn's party because I was jealous, I thought you liked Romilda,” she rambled, “and I wish I hadn't gone at all.” There was that annoying burn in her eyes, when would it stop bothering her?

He was silent for a beat, before softly whispering: “You like me?”

His tone was almost dumbfounded, she looked back up at him and blinked, shocked to find that he was surprised.

“Yes,” she replied, no point in turning back now, she figured.

“I like you too, I mean, a lot,” he stammered, his ears very red, her own face felt hot. From inside they could hear the countdown to midnight being started, and as the count reached 'one', Hermione decided to bite the bullet. She grabbed the front of his jumper, pulled him down and kissed him.

It was sloppy and his large hands fumbled on her waist, but he pulled her closer and she realized how warm he was against the frigid outside air. They broke apart and his face was beat-red, while hers felt quite hot. He looked like he was about to pull her in again when the window above them banged open, and the twins began pouring bags of confetti down over them. Before they realized what was going on, Ginny and Harry laughed from the kitchen window to their left.

“It's about bloody time!” exclaimed Ginny, only to yelp when further in the house came:

“Ginevra Molly Weasley, you will NOT be using that language in MY house!” bellowed an irate Mrs. Weasley. Hermione separated from Ron, trying to pluck confetti from her hair.  
  
“I think it's time I went home,” she started, almost disappointed that the night was coming to an end.

“Come over for lunch tomorrow?” Ron asked, face pink from the cold now, she nodded and began to head inside where she said her farewells to everyone before flooing home.

No one was in the office, so she charmed the ashes off her shoulders, and left a note for her mother on the desk, before heading off to her room, only barely managing to keep herself from skipping the entire way.  
  


  
Riddle Manor – January 1  st , 1944 - 1:00 am

  
Helen exited the car and walked into the manor, it had been a long night, and she'd waited until it was absolutely appropriate to make her escape. She headed towards her office first, pulling her gloves off along the way and unwrapping her shawl from around her shoulders.

Once inside her office, she headed towards the desk, finding Hermione's note, she read it with a smile. She was interrupted by a timid knock of the door, quietly she beckoned whoever was on the other side to enter.

She was surprised when the kitchen maid, Maisie, wrapped in her housecoat and hair in a bonnet, entered.

“Yes?” asked Helen, perturbed by the strangeness of the situation, before closing her eyes and sighing, she corrected herself.

“I apologize, Maisie, Happy New Year, how can I help you?” she asked, removing her coat and hat, walking towards the hanger in the corner of the room to deposit them on it.

“Am sorry for disturbing you, ma'am, but I have something really important to tell ye,” she whispered.  
  
“Very well, I'm listening,” Helen responded.

“Back in July, the day the old Mr. Riddle and his family were murdered, I saw him, ma'am, I was in the pantry and he was there in the kitchens, but he was doing something to the other kitchen staff, so I hid in the pantry until he was gone, and no one remembers seeing him, but I do, and I seen him here, so I wanted to warn ye,” she rambled fast, her mixed northern and Scottish accent making a lot of what she had to say almost indiscernible, but Helen got the gist.

“Who? Who was here that day the Riddles died?” she asked, dread squeezing her stomach.

“It was tha young Tom Riddle, ma'am, I'd remember a face tha braw anywhere,” she slowly answered, and all the air left Helen's lungs.  
  
  
'Well, fuck,' was all she could think at that moment. She brought her attention back to her kitchen maid.  
  


“Maisie, thank you for bringing this to my attention, but please, tell no one else, for your own safety,” she dismissed the girl after getting her to promise to keep quiet and take care of herself.

Helen sat at her desk and put her head in her hands, she considered this new information, because if what Maisie said was true, then Helen wasn't sure what her next move could possibly be. If Maisie was correct, it only meant one thing.  
  


Tom Riddle Jr. had killed his father and grandparents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh snap.
> 
> ye, i gave harry a baby sister, cause u can't change my mind that lily n james would have had more children if they were given the chance. 
> 
> it may or may not take me longer to post an update, my nonna (grandmother) is in palliative care after contracting covid from the elderly care home she was in, and it's wreaking havoc on my nerves, but also, it's not like i can go see her. 
> 
> hope you and all of your loved ones are safe and healthy, and i hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	16. Chapter 15 - Masala Chai for Three

Chapter 15 – London – January 6th, 1944

Helen exited The Langham hotel in London, her mind reeling from the meeting she'd just attended, the car was waiting out front and the driver opened her door for her. As she entered and sat down, she replayed the recent events that brought her there in the first place. It had been nary a day after the new years gala she'd attended that she received an invitation in London from a prospective client who wished to remain anonymous until the meeting. She'd agreed, although, in retrospect, she probably wouldn't have had a choice to begin with, which only mildly infuriated her.

Upon entering one of the hotel's conference rooms, who does she meet but the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill himself? The meeting began with clipped introductions, and signing, on her part, of confidentiality agreements, before diving into negotiations of arms and ammunition for an apparent Allied Forces planned invasion. She'd been told that there had been a minor disagreement with her predecessor, Thomas Riddle, who had been uncooperative to the idea of not being paid for his contribution until the war ended.

She'd been told that, originally, upon the deaths of the Riddles, the British Government had every right to seize assets of Riddle Arms, however, her presence at the new years gala had given him an idea. That despite Thomas Riddle's unpatriotic behaviour, that he, Churchill was willing to negotiate with the heir of Riddle Arms, as well as it's current stand-in regent, herself, in a bid to save their assets in the case of contribution to the war effort. She had pointed out that she had been helping the war effort regardless with donations of munitions to Eighth Army since late October, on top of regular sales, but it was simply waved off as if her contributions as a woman were insignificant.

She'd agreed, regardless of lack of choice in the matter, though annoyed by the sexist treatment she received. It was unlikely anyhow that she would have declined, even though after living abroad, her sense of nationalism was a bit rusty, she still had many reasons to want this war to be over. Her most paramount being a young Tom Riddle, who was currently sitting comfortable back at Riddle manor, and since her peculiar meeting with Maisie, she'd done her best to avoid him, for a multitude of reasons.

She remembered when she'd first met him at the start of the break, he was certainly a handsome lad, who looked eerily like his father, but with the eyes of his mother. She had pegged him for a cunning and intelligent individual at first, but the more she spoke to him, the more she could see a type of blankness in his expressions that denounced an internal cruelty she'd been all too familiar with, as she'd recognized it in her own father.

Her father, Edwin Riddle II, had been especially cruel, and frighteningly intelligent, he had worked in tangent with his cousin Thomas, travelling to various countries to collect clients for Riddle Arms. When in Italy in 1898, he'd become obsessed with the teenage daughter of the Innocenti family, paying her grandfather an obscene amount of money to marry her. Sofia Riddle (nee Innocenti) had become Helen's mother, and to this day, Helen did not know if her very existence had even been consensual, though she could take a guess as her mother would have only been sixteen during her pregnancy of 1899.

Her father had eventually killed her mother in cold blood after finding out she'd been having an affair with one of the footmen. That was in 1916, and he'd scapegoated that very footman for her murder. Soon after, when Helen had finished her schooling, he'd forced her to go travelling to the United States and the Caribbean with him, in the middle of a war to gather more prospective clients to the Riddle name. He had claimed that if he'd left her, then she would 'whore' herself out like her mother, even though she'd never done anything to allude to such proclivities. She could say with confidence, that even though she'd been afraid and alone in Martinique, so very far from home, that she had been glad he'd died.

Scant hours later after her meeting with Maisie, around the time of dawn, having been unable to sleep, Helen had gone to inspect her daughter's textbooks in her connected sitting room. She searched, carefully, so as to not to wake Hermione, she looked for some explanation for what Tom had done to her kitchen staff that day in July.

It had taken her about a half-hour, Helen's hope that a defence text would absolutely contain details of attacks that could be defended from had proved to be a correct assumption, as she'd found her answer in Hermione's Year 7 Defence Against the Dark Arts book.

Under the chapter of 'Mind Magics', Helen had shuddered at the implication, she'd found the section on 'Obliviation' to be informative. She'd continued to read the rest of the chapter, and had become rightfully horrified at some sections, such as 'Legilimency' and 'Imperius', that the later had been labelled as 'unforgivable' had been laughable, as to Helen, it all seemed unforgivable.

The idea that Tom could read her mind just by looking into her eyes had almost sent her into a homicidal rage. She'd taken to avoiding eye contact, or simply avoiding him altogether, it chilled and incensed her, how was she to protect Maisie, who was a sole witness to his supposed crime, if he could just pick that information from her mind? How was she to protect Hermione?

Helen was many things as a woman, shrewd, courtly, and perhaps a bit stiff and proper, but what she was not, was stupid. She knew the look of interest on a man's face when considering a woman he found desirable, she'd seen that look in her father's face when looking at her mother, again in Antoine's eyes when directed at herself for the length of their marriage, and she'd seen that look in Tom's eyes towards her daughter.

Anytime Hermione entered the room, regardless of what she was wearing, or if her hair was particularly tidy or not, she had Tom's almost immediate and full attention, and Helen noticed. Normally, as a mother, this would be seen as a bonding moment between herself and her daughter, but in this instance, it had filled her with dread. That a potential murderer, if Helen's theory was proven to be true, who had actual magic at his disposal, wanted her daughter, what could Helen possibly do to save her?

Her immediate idea was to send Hermione away, Helen had maintained passive contact with her maternal family in Italy all throughout her time in Martinique, that she was positive Tom couldn't know about, though with the war, that idea was currently impossible.

Furthermore, Florence, where the Innocenti family was based, had been bombed back in September, and though she knew they survived, she couldn't afford to gamble with Hermione's life by sending her there, not while it was occupied by German forces.

Helen had sent a letter to General Montgomery of the Eighth Army which was stationed to invade Italy, back in October, offering munitions and supplies personally, if a rendezvous could be arranged. Her contact then changed to Lieutenant-General Leese in December, and now more than ever, she wanted to continue supporting this war effort in the hopes that should it end, she'd have more freedom to protect her daughter in the coming future.

As for Hermione, Helen despaired for a moment, her girl had just found a potential career path, and she was also so excited about her new boyfriend, a Ronald Weasley, who Helen had yet to meet, but hoped to soon; she would be ripped from this little life she'd been creating for herself if Helen sent her away for her safety. She also worried that even if she did send her away, would Tom find her? Was there magic that could help him do that? She worried about her own life as well, would Tom kill her? Certainly, he would if she acted so blatantly against him.

Helen watched the countryside and towns passed as they continued the drive back North to Little Hangleton. She couldn't help the pervasive thought that she was overreacting, what if it was nothing? What if she was potentially uprooting her child's life again on a non-issue? What would Antoine do? What would he think?

She barely restrained a smile, Antoine would have gone off the rails just at the idea of Hermione having a boyfriend, he'd always joke:  
  
 _“You can have a boyfriend at forty-five, maybe.”_

No, she was sure. She thought once more to Tom's eyes following her daughter.

  
She was sure she was doing the right thing.

The Burrow – January 10th, 1944

Hermione stumbled out of the floo into the burrow, just barely catching herself on the back of the love seat that Ron was currently lounging on, his long legs dangling over the armrest, watching her with a goofy smile on his face. She leaned down and kissed him, his lips were soft, and she happily recalled how none of their kisses were as sloppy as that first one. He raised himself out of his lounge, he quickly grabbed her arms and before she could protest, pulled her over the back of the couch and onto his lap. She gasped and let out a laugh, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Stop, you're going to wrinkle my robes!” she joked, trying to detach herself, but he wrapped his arms around her waist, keeping her in place.

“Will you two get a room!?” Ginny exclaimed standing at the entrance of the sitting room, hand clasped over her eyes.

“My poor innocent eyes!” she cried dramatically. Ron let Hermione go and she bounced to her feet, but before she could palm her wand to straighten her robes, Ron had beaten her to it. She beamed at him while he turned his attention to Ginny.

“Quit jokin' or do you want me to tell mum how I caught you and Harry doing worse?” Hermione whipped her head from Ron to Ginny, a shock of scandalized laughter ripped from her mouth.

“You wouldn't,” Ginny replied, horrified, her tanned skin paling, causing her freckles to stand out even more.

“Try me.”

Hermione looked at the clock, noticing that Harry should be along any minute, as she was meeting his grandmother, Madam Euphemia Potter, today. Hoping to prevent the imminent sibling brawl, she piped:

“Who wants to help me study?” she ran her hand through Ron's hair to direct his attention back to her, it was loose today instead of in its regular braid. It was one of her favourite features of his, well, besides his hands. She snapped back to attention, face aflame at the direction of her thoughts, perhaps she was more smitten than she'd originally thought.

“'Mione, you know there's no test, you're just meeting Harry's granny,” Ron joked, taking her hand from his hair and lacing his fingers through hers, kissing the inside of her wrist lightly.

She couldn't stop the smile that crawled onto her face, she really wished moments like these didn't have to end. Realizing she hadn't replied, she stuttered a response, embarrassed to have been caught staring.

“I-I know that, but you have to remember, I'm a foreigner, and refugee to boot, there are so many things about the law here that I don't know, that are just obvious to anybody born here.” she looked at Ginny for some support, who had her head tilted upwards in thought, though it was Ron again who answered.

“I suppose you're right, well what's your focus going into law? Like I know Harry's granny specializes in immigration cases,” he scratched at the bit of facial hair along his jaw pensively, and Hermione knew her answer immediately, the cause that she was passionate about.

“Oh, that's easy, I suppose Magical Rights and Freedoms, anti-discrimination and the like,” she answered, thinking of the insults and hexes that had been thrown her way, as well recalling that nightmarish hellscape she'd been forced to endure just for existing in a space as nouveau-sang.

“Does that include beasts as well as beings? Like werewolves, house-elves, and goblins?” asked Ginny, and Hermione thought about it for a moment, before nodding.

“Yes, it would, France was a bit more ahead with those movements, but every book I've found here in Britain so far on Magical Rights, excludes them, and focuses generally on witches and wizards,” she explained, before pausing.

“Wait, do you mean just elves? Or is there another sub-species of elf here, like a brownie or something?” she asked, momentarily confused.

Ron and Ginny just looked at each other, confused, before Ron answered.

“No, just house elves, did France not have any? They cook all the meals and do the laundry at Hogwarts,” Hermione couldn't recall seeing any, but believed him anyhow. She then remembered something, and she snapped her fingers at Ginny to trace the thought.

“At Slughorn's gala, there were elves serving champagne, do you just call them house-elves?” Ginny nodded, the look of confusion on her face clearing.

“Yes, those were house elves,” she confirmed, and Hermione felt a little less confused, elves worked in Beauxbatons too.

“Right, Beauxbatons paid elves to work there too-” but stopped at Ron and Ginny's incredulous faces, “what? What did I say?” Hermione asked worriedly. Ginny looked at Ron before hesitantly answering.

“Elves aren't paid in Hogwarts, or well, at all in the isles.” Hermione just stared at her blankly, having trouble processing what she just heard.

It was that exact moment that Harry came through the floo, charming the ashes off his clothes, he raised a hand to wave, a '-lo' quietly left his mouth before reading the room.

“Okay, what did I just walk into?” he asked, looking to Ginny for answers, but it was Hermione who answered.

“I think I just learned that the UK benefits off of slave labour?” she asked, hoping one of them would tell her she was wrong and had misunderstood the whole conversation.

“House-elves?” he asked, and Ron nodded, still looking confused.

“I don't understand, I thought house-elves traded magic through their bonded wizards that allows them to live, and that they're happy to serve?” he asked, and Hermione remembered that the Weasleys had no elves, so she supposed it was understandable that they didn't know anything explicitly. Harry winced, before opening his mouth.

“Well, yes they do, and they use the magic they're given to perform incredible feats, but Hermione is right, they are still used as slave labour, with a lot of wizarding families hiding behind that fact to avoid paying them, and their behaviour is more of a learned traumatic response to being slaves,” Harry answered, taking off his glasses to clean the lenses, a nervous tic of his.

“A handful of families do pay their house-elves despite there being no law that asks them to, but on the opposite coincide, many families get away with offering the bare minimum while living off the comfort they provide,” he finished, replacing his glasses on his face.

“Has no one brought this horrible thing to the surface to correct? Slavery is heartless, and I do not believe all the people of the UK are so,” Hermione asked, distressed.

“Oh yeah, it's been brought up loads of times in the Wizengamot, but it always gets buried by those who benefit the most of the practice, which is usually the super-wealthy families in the UK. Which is also ironic as it's those wealthy families that are the ones who could afford to pay their elves the most,” Harry replied, taking a breath to continue, “I know a lot of this because my grandmother was one who tried to fight for it back in the early 1900s, but failed. Her and my grandpa Monty have elves, but they pay them.” Hermione nodded, looking forward once more to meeting Madam Potter.

“Who are these wealthy families?” she asked, menacingly, if she ever met one, she'd give them a piece of her mind.

“Well, you slapped one of them,” piped Ron, before counting on his fingers, “The Malfoys, Notts, Rosiers, Lestranges, Blacks, Averys, Parkinsons, Flints, Crabbes and Goyles, and I'm probably missing more, but those are the ones I can name off the top of my head,” Ron finished, relaxing his fingers before reaching for her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles.

“So, all of Tom's friends,” Hermione replied morosely, why wasn't she surprised?

“You call him Tom?” Ginny joked, braiding her hair loosely from her position on the adjacent couch.

“Well, I live with him, what am I supposed to call him?” she asked, confused, Ron just snorted.

“We're just surprised he doesn't make you call him 'lord' or something,” he sniped sarcastically, Hermione restrained a smile again, she may have mentioned to them that he was a lot meaner than the image he put out to everyone else, and honestly, that seemed like something Tom would do, in her opinion. Harry frowned, taking a seat beside Ginny, placing her feet on his lap.

“I've heard some rumours, I don't know if there's any truth to them though.” they all turned to look at him.

“There's word that he's vying for the Slytherin seat, as the only living descendant through the Gaunts,” he paused, taking a breath before continuing, “Through those friends of his, he has almost three-quarters of the Wizengamot in his pocket to see him succeed.” Hermione looked confused then she remembered that Harry was being trained to take the Potter seat.

“What?!”  
“He's a Gaunt?”  
  
These came from Ron and Ginny, Hermione vaguely recalled that the Weasleys had a seat on the Wizengamot, but it was currently held by an Ignatius Weasley, who apparently took the seat when his elder brother Septimus had passed while his sons were young, and refused to relinquish control to his nephew Arthur, though he had no sons of his own. All this information had been in the book that Tom had added to her curriculum pile for Magical Law: _Pureblood Directory_ - _The Sacred 28_ by: Cantankerous Nott. Thinking of that book, she suddenly remembered that the name of the shack on the edge of the Riddle property was called 'Gaunt Shack'.

“Right! Tom's mother is Merope Gaunt, Maman's cousin Tom married her,” she chimed in, snapping her fingers. She had wondered why the name 'Gaunt' had been so familiar to her when she'd read that book.

That book in question was a shocking and exclusionary piece of drivel, that propped itself up on the declared self-importance of the families listed. Not to mention is was horribly discriminatory that Hermione had a hard time taking it seriously. It was, however unfortunate, informative to how the British enclave was run: a shining beacon of nepotism and self-congratulatory behaviour that supported itself of the theoretical subjugation of non-magical people.

“You knew?!” Harry asked, shocked, Ron and Ginny turned to stare at her accusingly. She raised her hands in defence.

“I just knew the name, not the significance to the UK magical community, remember I'm just learning all of this!” she replied defensively, and all three had the grace to look ashamed.

“You're right, we're sorry Hermione, it's just the significance of someone taking a founder seat is _huge_ , it has the most voting power in the whole caucus, any progressive bills we can officially say goodbye to,” Ron apologized, explaining the importance.

“Why should one seat have so much power? I don't understand?” she replied, “give anyone too much power and they are bound to abuse it,” she cautioned, realizing it was a feat in itself to name every corrupt monarch, president, prime minister...führer, remembering once more the world outside the magical one.

“Nobody is simply given that power, but Riddle is unique in that, for the first time almost in history, he is a sole descendant with absolutely no competition, besides an uncle in Azkaban, with beliefs that coincide with the ruling class, it's such an incredible boon for them that they might even ignore his half-blood status,” Harry sighed, cracking his knuckles nervously, “a descendant needs to be voted in by majority, and Riddle has been collecting support from under our noses this whole time,” Harry expanded, looking at his watch.

“And as interesting as this conversation is, we're expected at my grandmother's firm in ten minutes.” he stood up, straightening his robes before leaning down to kiss Ginny quickly. Hermione felt arms around her waist and turned her head to look up at Ron, she turned in his arms, standing on her toes to peck him on the mouth, her arms around his neck.

“No wrinkles?” she asked, stepping back, Ron grinned and gave her a thumbs up.

“You look great, good luck.”

She beamed at him before turning her attention to Harry, who dictated the floo address to her clearly, before flooing before her. She followed right after and came out in a rather wealthy looking waiting room, with walls that were a cream colour and complimented by multiple red accents. Cherry hardwood floors were polished to a shine, with a single expensive looking red Indian carpet, and matching cherry wood furniture, that gave the waiting room a very elegant feel.

She followed Harry until she came upon a door, supposedly to the main office, her friend knocked lightly, before softly calling out:  
  
"दादी माॅं ?”  
  
Hermione glanced up surprised at Harry, as she didn't know that he spoke Hindi, but was unable to voice her admiration because a voice answered through the door.

“Come in!” this was spoken in English.

Harry opened the door, allowing her to enter first, and she did so while thanking him. She turned her attention to the source of the voice to find a rather small, slim witch, with long grey peppered black hair braided over one shoulder elegantly. She had a warm medium brown complexion, complimented with deep laugh lines along her eyes and mouth that did nothing but enhance her genial expression. She had a vermilion red mark along the part of her hair, and her robes were a professional navy teal that she'd paired with a cream and robins egg blue sari.

Hermione walked forward and held her hand out, which Harry's grandmother grasped firmly, her expression friendly, yet scrutinizing.

“Madam Potter, pleased to meet you, my name is Hermione Granger-Riddle, Harry has told me a lot about you,” she started, a little nervous, but otherwise determined to make the best out of this meeting.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger-Riddle, and believe it or not but Harry has told me about you too.” a small smile worked it's way to the older witch's lips. Hermione glanced at Harry to find him looking anywhere but her, and she groaned.

“Please don't tell me he told you the slap story,” she pleaded, who didn't hear that she slapped Malfoy? She was beginning to have her doubts that she'd ever live it down.

“He did,” she responded, amusement shining in her dark eyes. She gestured her to sit, as she herself took a seat, and asked if Hermione if she was a tea drinker, to which she confessed that she wasn't, but if she offered then she would love some. Harry had sat down in the seat next to her, by this point giving her an encouraging smile.

“So polite,” chuckled Madam Potter, “Sai?” she asked, and a moment later a small elf appeared in the office with a crack, she had blue robes on with many colourful decorated flowers and a variety of bangles on her thin wrists, remembering the earlier discussion, Hermione stiffened.

“Yes madam, how can Sai help?” the elf replied, voice sweet and high pitched.

“Masala chai for three please, and some of those biscuits you know Harry here likes.” the elf turned, and upon noticing Harry, beamed and waved, to which he returned enthusiastically.

“Yes madam, Sai will be just a moment,” before disappearing.

“You seem nervous upon meeting Sai,” Madam Potter broke the silence, and Hermione chewed her lip briefly before answering.

“I only just found out about the roles elves play here in the UK, and I'm still disturbed by it,” she explained, and the older witch nodded.

“Harry said you are from Martinique, it's understandable that you have such a visceral reaction to the practice,” she spoke calmly, but Hermione did not agree.

“With all due respect, Madam, my background or where I'm from should have no correlation to my opinions or reactions regarding such a vile practice. I feel it is awful, simply because it is, not because I have any personal connection that allows me to be outraged,” she spoke clearly, passionate about the matter. Madam Potter was smiling, something akin to approval shone in her eyes, she clasped her hands in front of her on the desk.

“Yes, you are correct and I apologize if I had insinuated otherwise, now tell me, what type of career are you looking for in law?” she asked, and Hermione took a deep breath, and began to speak.

She spoke of the injustices she'd witnessed both while travelling to Britain and while living here as well, she spoke of discriminating practices that should have no place in modern society, and she spoke of her wish to help people who could either not help themselves or had no one who would.

Throughout this, the tea had arrived, Harry listened to her just as intently as his grandmother, and Hermione took small breaks to drink the spiced tea, finding herself enjoying every bit.

She'd never actually had masala chai before, despite her home of Martinique having a considerable West-Indian influence, mainly because neither her papa, an avid chicory coffee drinker, and her maman, though a stout tea drinker, was picky with her black tea, had ever bothered to bring it into their home.

When she was done, her tea was done, and she could see the dusk begin to set through the window behind Madam Potter, that is, if it wasn't charmed. Harry was in a biscuit coma beside her, and his grandmother had a pensive look on her face.

“You make many excellent points, you are a very passionate individual, however, I can also see that you're intelligent and calculating.” she tapped her bright red nail against the china of her cup.

“I would like to offer you an internship, provided you earn an O on your NEWT,” she declared, and Hermione blinked, stunned, before snapping back to reality.

“Really? Yes! Absolutely!” she clasped her hands in front of her rather loudly. The sound woke Harry out of his power nap, and he jerked his head up.

“Wassat?” his glasses here crooked and voice groggy.

“Really, Harry?” his grandmother chided him, to which he ran a hand over his face and grinned sheepishly.

“Just like your grandfather, I swear.” Hermione smiled, too excited to even say anything, she got the internship!

She couldn't wait to tell her maman.

Kings Cross Station – January 13th, 1944

She followed Tom up the ramp at King's Cross, and over to the platforms, pushing her trolley with one hand while yawning into her elbow, they'd had to wake up almost at five in the morning to make it on time for the train, she cursed again that the conductor had no trouble dropping off students closer to their towns, but made no such effort when going to Hogwarts.

She thought back to the Saturday that just passed, she'd thrown herself into her books, she'd told Tom about the internship and he'd sat and quizzed her throughout the day, now they were heading back to Hogwarts for their second term.

“Hermione!” she heard her name being called almost as soon as she cleared the barrier with her trolley before Tom, she moved to the side so that he wouldn't run into her when he came through, and craned her neck to find Ron walking towards her. He picked up his pace and swung her in his arms, her own wrapping around his neck, kissing her deeply.  
  
They separated and Hermione's face was on fire, and she couldn't help the smile on her face.

“I'm going to go find us a carriage, want me to take your cat with me?” he asked, and she smiled at him and nodded, handing him Crookshanks's carrier. She turned to grab her trunk from her trolley, but a hand grasped her wrist. She glanced up to see Tom staring at her intently.

“What?” she asked, confused, he had such weird moods.

“What was that?” he asked, before letting go of her wrist and grabbing her trunk for her, charming it weightless as he picked it up.

“What was what? Do you mean Ron? Oh, right, we're together now,” she rambled, face growing hot, why would he want to know? It's not like it affected him.

“Ah,” he responded and said nothing more.

He carried their trunks and set them in the luggage compartment below the windows, before leaving her for the heads and prefects carriage. She decided to brush off his weird behaviour and went to join her friends.

Like last time, she slept for the majority of the ride, but also unlike last time, she cuddled into Ron this time around, only being woken when Minerva handed her a missive from Professor Dumbledore to see him after dinner. Her friends were looking at her curiously, and she remembered she hadn't actually told them what happened the night of Slughorn's gala.

So she told them everything, worried about what the summons would mean. Had her hex on McLaggen gotten caught? Was it concerning what he did? She supposed she would find out, so she discussed it with her friends, who apparently had already suspected because he'd been hexed very noticeably with that very specific word the night after she didn't come back to the tower.

Apparently, word travelled fast in the wizarding world, but surprisingly no one had attributed McLaggen's hexing to her, and Hermione figured her tongue-tying curse on him had worked after all. They had all be hoping she would open up to them when she was ready, and upon confirmation, Ginny was enraged, Harry was quietly furious, Géraldine held her hand in comfort from the seat across from her, and Ron was sad. He'd asked her why she hadn't told him, and she'd had to explain that for the majority of the break she had still been hurting and that she hadn't been ready to talk about it then. In the end, he understood, and they all told her they'd support her regardless of what happened.

They dropped the subject and began to talk about everything else that was apparently going on in the school, and halfway through the ride Luna joined them with extra copies of The Quibbler. She chattered about creature sightings from South America, and Hermione who'd been to the mainland a handful of times throughout her life, humoured her.  
  


It was not the first or last time that Hermione was glad of the friends she'd made at Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> harry speaks hindi because he was raised in a loving household with his parents and had frequent access to his grandparents as dragon pox isn't a thing yet. im not sobbing YOU ARE. euphemia is as much as a breadwinner as fleamont, and u can fight me on that.
> 
> i know a lot of people aren't chill with OCs getting so much attention, but i felt I needed another POV from helen, especially considering how the last chapter ended, and she's essentially an OC? i dunno, she has absolutely no substance in the original source material, so i guess????
> 
> Edit: I realized I bungled the timelines, so I fixed it by changing Tom/Hermione's birthdates to 1925, since I've intertwined too much of their seventh year to be 1943-44. my bad. I realized that because they are born late in the year that they wouldn't be at school with the rest of the kids born in 1926 before september. So I just changed it to 1925. Not a huge change, but makes it more seamless now, and them graduating in 44 actually makes sense now.
> 
> hope you enjoy


	17. Chapter 16 - Swashbuckling Adventure and Pervading Justice

Chapter 16 : Hogwarts Great Hall – April 2nd, 1944

Tom leaned his elbows forward on one of the Slytherin tables in the great hall, dinner had just passed and with OWLs and NEWTs fast approaching for respective fifth and seventh years, the hall was being utilized as study space. He was attempting to come up with a cohesive study guide but was currently failing miserably, there were simply too many things on his mind at the moment. As it was, the semester was moving far faster than he could come up with solutions to the many problems he was dealing with presently.

He felt Kaa dart her tongue across his clavicle from under his robes, and he was once again thankful that she was still small enough to fit there. He'd had to keep her hidden since returning from break, as snakes were not on the approved list of pets, and even as head boy, he was not exempt from that rule. His small familiar brought him to think of his first, and objectively his biggest problem that needed to be resolved by the semester's end: The basilisk.

She was still awake, but Tom was unsure of whether he should put her back to sleep, or create/find an entrance to the Forbidden Forest through the Chamber of Secrets that would allow her to hunt when his time in Hogwarts was done. Her mission was to rid the school of filth, that being muggles and muggleborns, but if he ordered her to stay her wrath, would she obey even when he was gone? It was something that certainly needed more thought because if she attacked, and he'd already taken the Slytherin seat, she could potentially undo all of his hard work because he would immediately be seen as responsible. Perhaps it was for the best to put the beast to sleep, at least until he was powerful enough to be untouched by the opposition, because hopefully by then, there would be no opposition.

Speaking of opposition, everything was prepared for him as soon as he left Hogwarts. He had acquired one of the two offered interviews of the Department of Mysteries. Only two a year were given the chance to go through a rigorous series of interviews needed to become an unpaid intern in the department, and it was only after two years as an intern, that one needed to pass a series of examinations to become an Unspeakable. It was a career Tom wanted, badly, almost as much as he had once wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. All that knowledge of magic at his fingertips, the things he could accomplish were astronomical.

He had dear Helen to thank for that, his position within the Riddle family gave him plenty to live off of without giving up his future to make a living. Had he'd still been at Wool's, he would have had to find meagre work to pay for a flat, as at eighteen, all orphans left Wool's, whether they had somewhere to go, or not. He'd originally planned to work at Borgin & Burkes, using the opportunity to find dark objects he could use for his power grab, and relics for his Horcruxes, as it was unsure if there really was any gold in the Slytherin vaults once he'd obtained the lordship and seat.

On top of the interviews, he'd also managed to convince Orion's father, Lord Regulus Black to allow him to train under him as an apprentice to learn the Wizengamot from an inside source. He would shadow the wizard through caucus meetings while using his time there to gather further support for his ascension as Lord Slytherin, which therein reminded him of yet another problem, though this one was far on his list of worries, currently, it was that: once he'd taken the founder's seat, he'd be pressured to take a bride from one of the supporting families, something that he didn't necessarily _have_ to do, nor want to do, but would feel the pressure of, all the same.

He glanced around him at his knights seated around him, Thoros and Abraxas had no female relatives to shuck his way, mercifully. Evan and Frederick both had younger sisters, both fortunately under the age of five and therefore out of the question. Graham had a sister that was already married and Terence was an only child, and he was hardly about to consider a Flint, not even if he was the most desperate wizard alive. That left Antonin, who had no actual direct family in the UK, and the Blacks.

There was Bella beside him, who had her delusions of becoming Lady Slytherin, loathe as he was to admit it, she would make a fine one; and then Orion's younger sister, Carina Black, who was a fifth year. He wasn't too worried about being asked to marry her, as he was quite certain of her lack of attraction to wizards, as she was currently courting Nia Shacklebolt, the younger sister to both his classmate Jaismine, and Professor Chidi Shacklebolt.

He glanced discreetly at Bella, she was becoming a problem, she'd recently had been finding herself in his bed more often than not, and the attention he'd apparently been showering her with has given her delusions of being in some type of relationship with him, going so far as to snipe at other girls who showed interest. Of course, he recognized that being a teenager, a willing shag was a willing shag, the fact that she was delaying the confirmation on her engagement was simply asking for trouble. He could not have one of his main knights shamed in the pureblood sphere for declining an engagement with a name as notable as Lestrange, not even the Black name could shield her completely, especially considering there was a Lestrange cousin in Grindelwald's inner circle, regardless of claims that from War General Theseus Scamander that she's been imperiused. They were a powerful family, and Bella's reputation was on the line, he would speak to her about unfortunately putting an end to their shenanigans.

His apparent future celibacy by driving Bella away couldn't have possibly come at a worse time, really, not when the object of his actual desire was doing her level best to run him to the point of apoplectic rage. He glanced up towards one of the Gryffindor tables to find her leaning against the Weasley oaf, going over notes together. He gripped his quill almost snapping it, before forcing down a scowl and looking back down at his pathetic study schedule, easing his grip on the delicate feather.

She'd begun courting the fool right under his nose during the winter hols, and he hadn't been made aware until on the platform preparing to head back for second term. Tom loathed it with every fibre of his being and had every intention of taking care of it soon. If anybody asked, Tom never pegged himself as a love-sick fool, especially in this instance, as he was positive that what he felt was not love.

It was a greedy beast in his chest that never seemed to be satisfied with the crumbs of her attention that he'd been feeding it. He'd been attempting to make himself into a sympathetic support in her life in the last couple of months, his discussion with Helen informative to how he should conduct himself to lure her to him.

He had even gone so far as to ease attacks on the muggleborns for the time being from Slytherins, as well, since the winter holiday he'd stuck to his conviction to help her with Magical Law, he'd been too pleased with the news of her internship with Euphemia Potter to not use the opportunity, the internship became a guarantee of her continued presence in the UK. He met with her every Wednesday to study Magical Law with her to ensure she not only write her NEWT on time without the help of the class but that she gained the O needed to secure said internship.

He'd come to the realization a while ago that what he felt was far more than lust, it felt of a need to have her close to him in every capacity. He'd also come to the conclusion that it was not love, either, because it did not stem itself in an intrinsic need to see her happy, healthy and whole. If it had been that, then he'd have allowed her to continue her relationship with Weasley.

He was sure Ronald Weasley was an upstanding bloke that could potentially make an honest woman out of Hermione Granger-Riddle, however, unfortunately for Ronald, that did not work for Tom in the slightest.

He was broken from his reverie to see Hermione gathering her books and bags before making off out of the hall. Tom looked at his watch, which had been his seventeenth birthday gift from Abraxas, to see that it was eight-thirty in the evening, and guessed that she was probably on her way to detention with Dumbledore.

Her little stunt against McLaggen had both positive and negative outcomes, the negative being that the boy had been healed of Hermione's hexes by Dumbledore himself, and a whopping three-month detention had been served to Hermione. The positives being that she wasn't criminally charged for the attack, like the McLaggen family had been braying for, and most deliciously, was that McLaggen hadn't been healed fast enough, word had gotten around at the speed of a lumos, causing _fourteen_ girls to come forward with stories of assault at the hands of the boy. He'd been ultimately expelled from Hogwarts and was currently fighting a slew of legal battles from a few of the victims who decided to go the legal route of getting even. All in all, this caused Hermione to attend all of her detentions gladly and with her head held high, and had gained her a rather vicious reputation, for a muggleborn.

He refocused on his study guide, finally making some headway with it. Curfew had been extended for the last three months of the term for those who were studying for international examinations. Tom was taking three additional NEWTs as a self-study, on top of his classes, if he got an O in all of them, he would have the highest scores in the country. He hadn't taken the classes for Muggle Studies, Care of Magical Creatures, or Divination, finding those courses to be easiest to thestral-shit his way to an O, as one: he lived with muggles, two: In the Care exam there were no actual live creatures to deal with during the NEWT, it was all theoretical, and three: with Divination, you either had the gift or you didn't, everything else was guessing.

It was almost ten at night when he noticed Weasley begin to pack his things, and make to leave alone, perhaps to pick up Hermione from her detention like the dutiful boyfriend he was. He grounded his teeth and was struck with an idea, he quickly gathered his things and bid his knights that he would see them later in the common room, before following Weasley out into the hall. He disillusioned himself as soon as he cleared the doors, ensuring that there were no witnesses to what he was about to do.

He followed him up to the fourth floor, with the hall empty of any soul, that Tom took the opportunity to strike. He gathered his magic and focus before angling a whispered Imperio at the redhead. Once he was sure he was not about to be fought off, he willed the boy to walk into the nearest empty classroom. He would have to work fast and with a delicate hand, else wise, someone was either bound to come looking for him, as well, a badly implemented imperius curse was easy to recognize, making his interference useless in the end. He followed the boy into the classroom, observing him all the while, he thought vaguely that Weasley was not a bad looking bloke, Hermione could have certainly done worse.

He was as tall as Tom himself was, with a broad frame and large hands, hands that he'd wondered, before he could stop, if they'd had ever touched Hermione intimately. Acid flushed his gut at the thought, and he willed that particular image away, continuing to scrutinize the boy in front of him. His red hair was long and braided to his shoulder, and his (currently dull imperiused) eyes were a cornflower blue. He had a straight nose and generous mouth that hid straight teeth, he'd even go as far as to call him a farm-boy type of handsome. He raised his wand gently, and began to whisper, instructing the imperius to do his bidding.

“ _You will go about your days as you always do, you will let absolutely nobody know that anything is wrong,_ ” he began, taking a deep breath, “ _In two weeks from this day, you will break your romantic and sexual relationship with Hermione Granger-Riddle. You think that it will not work out and that you wish to focus on yourself without distractions. Your future is very important, after all, it is okay to want to be certain of your aspirations_ ,” he paused for a moment, he needed to make this as believable and realistic as possible, else wise, no one least of all Hermione would deign to believe it, he needed nobody to suspect foul play.

“ _You will wish to continue to remain friends with Hermione, but simply have no desire for more. If anybody asks, you will state your reasons as you know them,_ ” he finished, letting the imperius sink into every nerve and train of thought the boy had. Tom watched, still disillusioned, as his shoulders relaxed and he sighed, he instantly had his wand up once more before Weasley could take in his surroundings.

“Obliviate.”

He would remember nothing of the last five minutes, of coming in here at all. He watched as the other boy walked out of the room and smiled, that was another problem taken care of. Tom proceeded to cast a series of harmless spells to bury the use of the unforgivable and memory charm from his wand's recording and proceeded to head down to the Slytherin common room, perhaps he would allow more of Bella's delusions for tonight.

Hogwarts Library – April 19th, 1944

Hermione glanced up from her copy of Magical Rights of Wizards and Beings, she closed her eyes and put her head in her hands, trying to absorb the last twenty pages she'd read. It was a Wednesday, so she was with Tom in the library, both studying for their Magical Law NEWT, which she would be writing via self-study with the rest of the class in June.

Recently she'd thrown herself once again into her studies when Ron had broken up with her earlier this week. She understood his reasons, she did, but she just couldn't help that it still hurt. She thought back to the day, she'd been more or less in shock and hadn't replied with anything other than an 'oh' and 'okay'. What was she supposed to say? No? No, you cannot break up with me? She wasn't that type of person.

He'd told her it hadn't been her fault, but she could not help but think that it was, her insecurities running through her brain like a crup chasing its tails. Was she not pretty enough? Laidback enough? Was it because she was too focused on school? Did she talk too much? Not talk enough?

Was it because she was muggleborn?

She knew rationally that Ron didn't care for any of that, he had liked her the way she was, but the emotional side of her simply could not let it go and move on, it kept trying to find a fault in her that drove him away. She vaguely heard the sound of a textbook closing but ignored it, grounding the heels of her palms into her eyes.

“What's wrong?”

She snapped out of her thoughts and pulled her head out of her hands and looked across the table at Tom, it took her a second to register what he'd asked.

“Oh nothing, just tired,” she responded, looking back down at her textbook, fluffing her hair out of her face. She hadn't had the energy to even twist her hair when she washed it yesterday, so it was now in its natural afro-like state, with her natural curl pattern. As soon as classes ended for the day, she'd taken off her school hat and shoved it in her bag as it refused to cooperate with her hair unless it was plaited or braided.

He leaned back in his seat and she just knew he wasn't going to drop it.

“I have a lot on my mind right now,” tapping her nail rhythmically against the table, she went back to reading. She wanted to get through at least another three chapters today.

“Mm, is it because you broke up with Weasley? Or was that just a rumour?” he asked, a cruel type of amusement curling the corner of his lip up.

“That isn't any of your business,” she clipped, gripping her fist tightly, she wondered if leaving would deescalate the situation she was in. When Tom was in a cruel mood there was no stopping him, she just wished it wasn't directed at her this time.

“You seem awfully defensive, or did he break up with you?” he asked, tone light, but she could tell he was just trying to get a rise out of her. She bit her cheek and attempted to ignore him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction that he was getting to her. Those invasive self-conscious thoughts had come back stronger than ever.

“I'm not surprised, the Weasley's are a pureblood family, one of the oldest ones, you shouldn't let it bother you that he wouldn't have any intention of taking your relationship further, it's just the way things are with these types of families,” his tone was pensive, but it had done the trick. Hermione slammed her book shut and got out of seat abruptly, she grabbed her things and went to return the text from the shelf she got it from, eyes burning, ignoring that Tom was calling her name.

“Hermione,” he called again, as she slid the book onto the shelf, his hand came to gently wrap itself around her wrist. She grabbed his own wrist to try and wrench herself free, trying to walk around him. His grip tightening, he studied the snake bangle she was still wearing.

He stepped in front of her, continuously blocking her path, causing her to become annoyed, she didn't want him to see that what he'd said was exactly one of the thoughts in her head. She turned the other way, planning to wrench herself free and walk the other way, but he'd grabbed her other wrist as well, fury coiled in her stomach.

“Just leave me alone!” she snapped, trying to wrench herself free, the burning in her eyes had escalated to tears that kept escaping her down her face, she could taste the salt when she licked her bottom lip of it.

“I'm sorry,” he said earnestly, letting go of one of her wrists, this time pulling her into his arms. She stilled as he tucked her head and all her hair under his chin, she didn't know what to do, this was uncharted territory with him.

“I didn't mean for what I said to hurt you, please believe me,” he continued, one arm was heavy across the back of her neck and shoulders, causing her to lay her head against his chest, and his other arm was wrapped tightly around her waist, his hand gripping her hip. Her own hands clenched at his robes for lack of anything better to do with them. She attempted to swallow the lump in her throat, turning her face inwards to his chest, wetting the front of his robes with the tears that were still wet on her cheeks.

“Yes, you did,” she replied, “You're always saying things purposely to get a rise out of me, just stop lying,” she mumbled, she could feel the rumble in his chest when he laughed.

“I say things to get a rise out of you because it's fun to debate and argue with you, but I never actually mean any harm, not to you,” he responded.

'Not to you,' she heard that part but didn't understand what he meant.

'Why not me? He dislikes muggleborns, what makes me any different?' she voiced none of these questions, suddenly feeling drained. She sighed, suddenly wanting nothing more than to go to bed.

“Fine, whatever, can you let me go? I'm going to head back to Gryffindor tower now,” a part of her thought he was comfortably warm, and the last hug she'd had been Ron before the breakup, but she dominated that thought it shoved into the deepest recesses of her mind. 

She did not like hugging Tom, and Ron's weren't that great either, she didn't need anyone's embraces. He loosened his hold on her, and she stepped back slowly.

“For now,” he joked, but when she looked up at him she almost got the impression that he wasn't.

She wiped the newer tear tracks from her face, adjusted her bag on her shoulder and without another word, she left. She moved fast through the shelves towards the stairs that would bring her down to the ground floor of the library, almost launching herself down them, her anxiety of being in libraries alone still strong to this day. It was as she got to the ground floor and made to turn around one of the shelves that she slammed into another person, a hand reaching out to grab the front of her robes before she could fall on her behind.

“I apologize, I wasn't looking where I was going,” she rambled, looking up to find the Slytherin girl that shook her hand months ago.

'Shacklebolt,' her mind supplied but flushed when she couldn't recall her first name.

“Are you alright?” Shacklebolt asked, ignoring her reply.

“What?” Hermione was confused, was she alright? She hadn't fallen, though. The other girl nodded to her face.

“You look like you were crying, what? did Riddle do that?” she asked, and Hermione reached up to her face to still find some dampness along her jaw.

“Wait, how did you know I was with Tom?” she asked, momentarily confused.

“I always come to the library at this time, and you're usually with him so I just guessed,” she shrugged, she had a Welsh accent, and combined with her slightly raspy, deep voice, Hermione found it quite pleasant to listen to.

“Right,” she supposed that made sense, realizing the girl was still waiting on an answer to her question, “I'm alright, I just thought of something upsetting,” she bit her lip before asking.

“What's your name anyhow? This may sound rude, but I only know your surname,” the other girl blinked, her eye colour was so dark it was almost black, and Hermione noticed her eyelashes were quite long.

“Oh, right, that was impolite of me, I apologize,” she held her hand out for her, looking sheepish for a moment.

“Jaismine Shacklebolt,” she introduced herself, Hermione shook her hand and introduced herself in return.

“I suppose it would be rude if I didn't introduce myself in return, I'm Hermione Grange-Riddle.”

“I know, The Great Slapper, is it?” she asked in a lightly teasing manner, Hermione groaned, slapping her hand over her face.

“I am never going to live that down,” she cried, causing the other girl to laugh, as she brought a hand up to sweep her locs over her shoulder, they weren't tied back today, she minutely noticed.

“Dinner is soon, would you mind if I accompanied you to the great hall?” she asked, but Hermione shook her head, not quite ready to see anyone a Gryffindor quite yet, not after the meltdown she just had.

“No, it's okay, I had a big lunch, I was actually feeling tired, and was about to go back to Gryffindor Tower,” she answered, sad for the potential loss of company.

“Alright, I'll walk you up until we hit the great hall then.” turning to leave, not accepting no as an answer. Hermione almost rolled her eyes, exasperated with Slytherins and their need for control.

They chatted about a variety of things but ended up arguing halfway during their walk, on who their favourite muggle author was, Jaismine was stuck on Mary Shelley and H.P Lovecraft while Hermione was currently a fan of Jane Austen and Alexandre Dumas pere. Jaismine preferred the supernatural and the rather dark, occultist works, while Hermione loved romance, familial love, swashbuckling adventure and a pervading sense of justice. Though let it not be said that she didn't have a secret obsession for Agatha Christie works. 

They'd slowed their walk so that what was regularly a five minute walk had become a fifteen minute one, and she was disappointed once they reached the great hall, though she said her goodbyes and continued her way to Gryffindor tower. Reaching her destination, she was in a better mood than she'd been all day, she wondered if she could potentially call Shacklebolt a new friend.

She recalled the last hour, Tom upsetting her, and then holding her while he apologized, his hand on her hip and arm around her waist, her face felt hot at the memory. She wanted to believe it was completely unintentional, but she'd come to learn that with Tom, almost everything he did was deliberate, so it left her confused.

'He doesn't think of me that way, there's no way, we're essentially related' she thought stubbornly, but she remembered what Romilda Vane had said, and all the times her mamie told her that their neighbour Cécile had like her because they were always pushing her around and pulling her braids.

'For now,' she recalled him saying, what did that mean? She laid in her bed, still in her robes and pressed her pillow to her face. Why was the memory of him holding her make her feel, well, hot? She was uncomfortable with the feeling, so she decided she needed a shower, a cold one at that.

It wasn't until later did she realize that she hadn't thought of her breakup once since leaving the library.

Library – Meanwhile

Back at the library, Tom watched her leave, the weight of her head on his chest present long after she was gone. That was the closest she'd ever been to him, conscious, that is. He knew that had anyone seen him embrace her, he'd have some explaining to do, but he hadn't been able to help himself. When he took hold of her wrist at first to see that she was wearing his gift, it had made him escalate the situation, going even further when he noticed her crying. He felt the beast in his chest purr in delight, he'd decided that that moment had been one of the perfect times to set himself up sympathetically. The need to restrain her against himself felt akin to when one viewed something adorable, instinct told them to squeeze whatever it was, and so he did.

He returned to the table and gathered his things, slinging his bag over his shoulder, he made to leave the library for dinner. He was about to descend the stairs to the ground floor when he heard her voice and stilled, he quickly disillusioned himself and peered over the metal rail of the balcony, was she talking to...Shacklebolt?

'When did that happen?' he thought curiously, though it only took him a moment of watching to realize they were just meeting for the first time, and that nothing was actually going on, so he silenced his feet and continued his way down the stairs and out the library.

He found it disconcerting how easily she could derail his thoughts and actions, he would need to find a way to deal with that, perhaps it would get easier when she was in his control. He thought back to his strategy of getting Weasley to break up with her, he had admitted to himself that it had been a rash move at the time. He had been driven entirely by jealousy, an emotion he thought himself to be above, however, it _had_ worked well in his favour. Tom thought holding the _imperius_ so long would be tiring, but he hardly felt it at all, which was probably why it was so dangerous, he considered letting it go on for a couple of more months perhaps, at least until she was completely his.

He would have to be persistent if he wanted to keep himself in her favour, and he would have to appear auspicious to her surrounding influences as well. He thought briefly of Helen, since break she'd sent documents periodically for his signature, something big was being planned involving Britain in the muggle war, something that required an impressive amount of munitions. All these letters alluded to something, but told him nothing at the same time, he snorted, remembering that Helen was far too careful for that. It was clear she recognized the magical world as an unknown variable that could make or break attempts to end the muggle war.

He thought back to the wards placed on the manor, they had taken him an entire night to complete. He had apparated to and from the manor between Liverpool, Manchester, Leeds, and Sheffield, gathering a random homeless muggle from each to use for sacrifice. He'd charmed each of them asleep, and had placed each at a pre-prepared ritual circle on the cardinal points of the property, including the Gaunt Shack.

He'd made sure to cover his tracks, purchasing a second wand and ceremonial dagger in Knockturn Alley weeks earlier, and a handy little amulet borrowed from Antonin to scour his magical signature. He really loved the legal loopholes that ensured his continued innocence, despite the illegality of the wards he erected, so long as it hadn't been done with his wand, any other evidence, should anyone have bothered to investigate, would have been circumstantial, at best. That didn't, however, stop him from being cautious. 

He'd slit the throat of each sacrifice after waking them up and immobilizing them, each life, blood and body had been consumed by their ritual circle, powering the wards, and leaving nary a spot of blood as evidence. The results had almost been instantaneous, as soon as the ritual had been completed and the wards were up, he felt every living thing in the manor at all times, as well as where they were, and the ward supplying names when there hadn't been knowledge of them before. Even once back at Hogwarts, he could feel everything, from the meetings Helen held in her office, to the lowest kitchen maid bustling in the pantry.

He entered the great hall and sat in the seat beside Abraxas, who perked up at the intrusion.

“I found something for you, for your sizable problem,” he spoke lowly in Tom's ear, earning his attention.

“Show me back at the common room, well done,” he replied, as the food appeared on the tables, he was pleased with the potential of another issue being resolved.

Dinner finished, and instead of using the time to study, he requested Abraxas and Bella specifically to follow him back to the common room. Once there, Abraxas took off to the dorms to retrieve whatever it was he had for Tom, in the meantime, he turned to Bella.

“Stop putting off your engagement to Rudolphous Lestrange,” he spoke lowly, bringing a hand up to caress her jaw, as she angled her face up towards him.

“Okay,” she replied, and Tom blinked briefly in surprise at her easy acceptance, prompting her to continue:

“I know you have no intention of marrying me, or anyone for that matter, I'm just having a little fun until the real world is upon us outside of this castle,” she shrugged delicately, before standing on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.

“You're sweet for worrying about my reputation though,” she finished, with a sly smile, stepping back from him and straightening the collar of his robes, accidentally jostling Kaa, who hissed a mild complaint, before she turned to leave as Abraxas returned, leaving the two of them alone.

'Well, that was easier than I'd hoped,' he mused, tickled at Bella's audacity, if that was how it was then he had no problems obliging her if she continued to come to his bed.

He glanced at the book in Abraxas's hand before offering to take it, which the other boy gladly relinquished his hold on it. He flipped to the page marked with a silk string and read it carefully. It was a sleeping spell for any large beast with permanence up until being released by the mage who cast it, the illustration accompanied depicted a wizard and a dragon in the demonstration.

He smiled, this was perfect, looking back up at Abraxas, he brought his hand up to cup his cheek. If Tom was anything, it was an opportunist, and he was not above using the other boy's attraction to him for his own gain, so he brought his face closer and leaning down slightly, he kissed his jaw, causing Abraxas to let out a shuddering breath in response.

“You did very well, thank you, this will work excellently,” he praised him, and he could almost see the obsession for himself shine in those blue eyes of his.

“Of course, anything for you,” came his breathy reply. Tom cupped the back of Abraxas's neck and brought his forehead to his own.

“You are invaluable to me Abraxas, never forget that,” he told him, keeping eye contact because it was true. It was his followers and supporters who would ultimately give him the power he craved, and in return, he didn't mind to give a little back, this was no different.

“I won't.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> daily reminder: trans women are women / trans men are men, and discrimination against them DOES exist despite jkr tweeting that it doesn't and she can go fuck off into the sun for all that other terf shit rhetoric thats she's spewing. 
> 
> and (though it should go without saying): Black Lives Matter.
> 
> leta lestrange is alive, cause she didn't deserve to die like that, and i will die on that hill.  
> also in this story both luna and jaismine are trans.
> 
> hope y'all enjoyed the chapter.


	18. Chapter 17 - Sad Cyprus

**Implied non-con in this chapter.**

Chapter 17 – Hogwarts Great Hall – June 25th,1944

Hermione sat with her friends on the relegated seats for graduates, to her left was Géraldine, Dean, Seamus and Augustine, and to her right was Ron, Harry, Lavender, Parvati, Sophie, and Neville. The rest of the hall sat siblings and parents of the graduates, the eight horizontal tables had been replaced with individual seating, and they were all filled. Hermione was a bit sad her mother could not witness her graduation, as a non-magical person, she was not welcome in magical spaces.

She glanced to her left to see Géraldine gaze into the crowd sadly, Hermione squeezed her hand, even though she had Professor Bernard there to support her, nothing could replace loving parents, and Hermione felt shame that she'd had even felt sad about her mother's absence for a moment when her friend didn't even know if hers were alive. She thought to the war outside, her mother had written her that something big was happening in June, that if successful, would hopefully domino an end to the war, and Hermione truly hoped she was right. She hoped the war ended, that Géraldine's parents and older brother reunited with her safely, and she hoped the Nazis would get what was coming to them. The evil of this war had taken it's toll not only on Hermione, but on her mother as well, she knew it and she just wanted it to end.

Hermione thought of her own future, she hadn't been sure if she even wanted to stay in Britain, and she worried about what she would do if she didn't obtain an O on her Magical Law NEWT. Though they were all graduating, there was still about a month to wait until results came in, and in that month, Hermione would have to come up with a backup plan if her first plan fell through. She toyed with the idea of just continuing to self-study, at least until the wars were over, and then maybe go back to Martinique, or maybe go live anywhere else, with magic on her side, the opportunities to see the world were endless; but with the wars, how long would those self-studies last? It was all food for thought for her, that bore some consideration before she made any large decisions.

She vaguely registered that Headmaster Dippet had finished his speech, clearing the podium for Minerva to say a few words as Head Girl. Hermione dove into her thoughts once more, remembering that Minerva had accepted a position in the Ministry, which surprised everyone, they'd all thought she would attempt to acquire a mastery in Transfiguration, seeing that she was a prodigy in it.

She thought of all the directions her friends were going to; Harry and Ron were both joining The Department of Magical Law Enforcement in the Ministry. Harry was going towards the Auror office to begin it's four-year training course, the office itself specialized in the fieldwork of catching dark wizards, which suited him, as he was a quick and powerful duelist. While Ron was going towards the Investigations Department to begin a two-year internship, which specialized in tracking down dark wizards by analyzing their actions, which was perfect for him, as he was essentially a strategic mastermind. Both departments went hand in hand together and she agreed that it suited both boys.

Géraldine had also obtained a position in The Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but her position was in the Improper Use of Magic office. When Hermione had asked why there, she explained that they were in charge of the trace on minors and that it was a start to try and find her siblings; Géraldine didn't want to believe that out of six children, she was the only one with magic, and Hermione agreed, though she, herself, was an only child.

She glanced towards Dean and Seamus, who apparently had every intention of getting married as soon as they were out of Hogwarts, both boys secured positions in The Department of Magical Sports and Games. Lavender and Parvati had decided to become business partners on top of girlfriends, and were opening a boutique in Diagon Alley that would showcase robes of different styles from around the world, they'd already gotten the permit for it, they just needed school to finish so that they could set it up.

She watched as Minerva left the podium and up walked Tom to give his speech as Head Boy. At that moment, Ron's leg brushed faintly against hers, and her mind reeled at the shock of what felt like electricity that ran through her. She forced herself to shove down her stubborn infatuation, which was ever-present, despite them breaking up, Hermione thought herself pathetic for not being able to rise above it yet. She and Ron remained friends, but there were times where she couldn't help but want to hold his hand, or run a hand through his hair, while he, hadn't glanced at her once.

She looked around and could see every face trained on Tom at the podium, and despite her awareness of Tom's less than stellar behaviour with her, she understood that he was unbelievably charismatic, especially when he had something to gain from it. Tom had gotten one of the two interview spots for The Department of Mysteries, which surprised her, as she'd already heard of his plans to run for the Slytherin seat, thanks to Harry. She assumed he would be incredibly busy, with a career as engrossing as an Unspeakable, to an incredibly busy caucus seat, it made her realize that she didn't really know much about him, aside what he's told her. She didn't know how many classes he took, only that they had shared two, and had never spoken to any of his friends, didn't even know if he'd ever had a girlfriend, it was all a bit inconsequential to her, considering they were in each other's personal sphere whether they liked it or not, by grace of having the same name, and living together.

When she asked him about his goals back during Easter break, he confessed that his original pipe dream had been to become the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor when Professor Merrythought retired. When she'd told him to his face that he was too mean to be an educator, he had laughed, showing his white teeth, and Hermione was ashamed to admit it had made her heart prattle in a way that she refused to give credence to.

Jaismine had informed her that she'd gotten the other interview spot for The Department of Mysteries, fascinated as she was with all things dark, and well, mysterious. The other girl had become a good friend of hers in the last two and half months, she found out that she had been in muggle studies solely because Professor Watson, who was muggleborn, always suggested good, creepy books to her.

Hermione didn't understand Jaismine's obsession for the occult, she was already a witch, there already existed weird fantastical things all around her, all the time. Then again, she supposed, as a nouveau-sang, all of this may seem out of the ordinary to her, but to Jaismine, who was a pureblood, everything Hermione felt that was bizarre, was just ordinary for her.

She realized in her musings that Tom had finished his speech and the choir was taking its place to sing the Hogwarts school song one more time for the graduates (Hermione really thought it was awful, but as a transfer, kept that opinion to herself), she flushed, realizing she hadn't heard a word he'd said.

The song ended and the guests were leaving, she turned to Ron and Harry and told them she'd be right back and went to go find Jaismine for a moment so that she could give her a mailing address before she forgot. Seeing the other girl, she headed her way but was stopped by a hand on her arm, she looked down at the hand and up to its owner, finding Tom turned away from her, giving the impression to anyone who looked at them that he wasn't actually attempting to converse with her.

“You weren't paying attention to any of the speeches,” he spoke lowly, but Hermione was too annoyed to try speaking to him like this. Despite her rejection of answers earlier in the year, he hadn't changed in the slightest. If any of his friends were around, he pretended he didn't even know her, ignoring her existence unless he could write it off as scholarly cooperation, but when they were alone, he'd let his hand skim around her waist, or gently place his hand on her lower back, as if he were caressing something precious.

Hermione was sick of it, and she didn't want to admit that it hurt, she had told him once, and she stood by what she said. She was not inferior to him, and she refused to be treated like she was, so without answering him, she ripped his hand off her arm and continued to walk away, feeling his glare on the back of her neck.

“You okay?” it was Jaismine who asked, as Hermione stomped her way over to her, breathing heavily through her nose and expelling the air through her mouth to calm down, she answered.

“Yes, I'm okay, I came to give you this.” she handed the folded paper, the other girl took it, opening it carefully. She smiled when she saw the address, and Hermione thought for a second that she had a really nice one, and that her lips looked soft, before stomping that train of thought into the ground as the other girl glanced back up at her.

“I was going to ask if you wanted to meet up at Diagon Alley in the next week?” she asked, folding the note and placing it into the sleeve of her robes.

“Sure! I have some books you may like to read anyway,” Hermione replied, overjoyed at the idea of meeting up with a friend, or well, any excuse really to leave the manor and Tom.

“Oh? It's not something wholesome and frilly is it?” she joked, and Hermione rolled her eyes, the other girl teased her mercilessly over her apparent crush of Mr. Bingley in Pride & Prejudice, in protest of being forced to read it by Hermione.

“No, it's properly deranged enough for you, I made sure,” Hermione retorted, and they continued to exchange banter before Harry, Ron and Géraldine joined them, as well as a few of Jaismine's friends, Su Li, and Padma Patil, who, incidentally, was Parvati's twin that Hermione had never actually spoken to before.

The whole group of them took their shindig outside, where Ginny and Luna eventually met up with them. It was sitting in the sun by The Great Lake, throwing snacks into the water for the giant squid, that Hermione realized that she would miss Hogwarts in a way that she had never missed Beauxbatons, where she had spent five and a half years of her schooling.

She chalked it up to the fact that she attended Beauxbatons in the middle of two wars, meaning there had been a lot of tension, and coupled with her earlier abrasive personality, it had just never become home in the way Hogwarts had in a short year, despite all the bad that had happened to her here. The sun blazed above them, Harry's head was in Ginny's lap as Ron lounged next to them. Géraldine and Luna had hiked their robes up so expose their calves and were sitting by the water with their legs in, everyone else was just conversing and enjoying their last afternoon on Hogwarts grounds, it made Hermione nostalgic for a feeling she couldn't put a name to but filled her with hope for a future of afternoons like this all the same.

Riddle Manor – July 8th, 1944

  
Hermione floo'd back to her mother's office, recounting her day and how she'd managed to set everything up. She hoped that back on graduation that she'd see Jaismine earlier, but they hadn't managed to schedule anything until today, the other girl being quite occupied with her interviews. She had spent the majority of the last two weeks at The Burrow, or Potter manor, truly just doing her level best to get out of the manor, where Tom seemed to know and be where she was all the time.

She had found out while visiting Fred and George's newly opened shop, Weasley Wizard Wheezes in Diagon Alley, late last week, that Angie, George's fiancée, had a salon almost next door to them, and remembering how much she'd wanted braids like the other woman, she'd made an appointment for today. She used it as an excuse to invite Jaismine out, and as it was a Saturday, she's been able to come.

Hermione met her early in the morning at the cafe across from Flourish & Blotts, and had given her the book she'd promised her, it had been a recommendation from her maman, The Picture of Dorian Gray by: Oscar Wilde. They had walked the alley after their tea, or coffee, in Hermione's case, stepping into the joke shop to say hello before heading to Angie's salon.

Hermione was constantly amazed how bright and alive Diagon Alley was, considering muggle London, from the last time she glimpsed it, was still recovering from bombings that happened in '41, then again, to the British magical world who disdained its non-magical population, it did seem pretty on-brand to ignore their suffering, regardless that their continued prosperity balanced on the grace that Grindelwald hadn't yet been able to, in almost twenty years of war, breach the UK. She read up as much as she could on the UK's stance on the magical war, surprised that they'd managed to create an impressive army head and trained by former Auror Theseus Scamander, the older brother of Newt, who had written _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ back in the 20s.

Once they'd entered the shop, Hermione had no longer needed to wonder how Angie did her braids, because the entire back of the salon was an incredibly detailed and large enclosure of silk moths. Upon asking the other woman if she was correct, Angie had confirmed that she used Ahisma silk, which was a non-violent method to the moths, and her own treatment to the cocoons until the silk began to take the appearance of hair; and that once she'd gotten the desired texture, that was when she dyed the sets either blonde, brown, or black.

Both Hermione and Jaismine had been fascinated with the whole process and eagerly sat down as Angie did a quick demonstration, and had then allowed them to gently pet one of the moths, that had come to land on her hand. Afterwards, Hermione gladly sat down as Angie conditioned, washed, then dried and straightened her hair before she meticulously started braiding. It took hours, Angie had separated the hair at her scalp into small squares, and carefully weaved bundles of silk hair in with Hermione's own, and they had taken many breaks, talking and joking about a variety of things. At some point, George showed up, bringing a late lunch/early dinner for them, until it was done, and she had braids that brushed her hips.

When Angie finished, Hermione was amazed, she never thought she'd ever see her hair this long, as sometimes, during extreme heat or cold, her hair would become dry and break off easier. The winter at Hogwarts being her first winter, Hermione had had to learn new habits fast to save her hair. It was when the braids were done that Angie used the _colovaria_ charm to match the brown of the dyed silk to Hermione's own natural tone.

All in all, she was incredibly impressed, Jaismine included, who Angie had retwisted the roots of her locs, nice and neatly, styling her hair into an intricate up-do to hold the new twists. Both girls paid Angie and tipped her generously before leaving the shop to head towards the floo.

Stepping through, and noticing the office was empty, she looked to the clock and was surprised to see that it was quite late, perhaps around eight, and seeing as she'd missed dinner, she decided to stop by the library to just grab something to read for the rest of the night.

She'd been reading a lot for leisure recently as she still hadn't gotten her NEWT results back, she had kept in contact with Madam Potter on her NEWT progress, she estimated that she possibly had another two weeks until she received anything conclusive.

She entered the library, it wasn't very large, it only boasted a few tables and bookcases lining the wall, nothing compared to the Hogwarts or Beauxbatons libraries certainly. She went to where fiction was normally sorted, as she felt too tired currently to read anything non-fiction, and scouring the shelves, she noticed that her maman had added a decent amount of books since she'd last been here.

She ran her finger along the spines, noting that a lot were new American works, and eventually stopped at an Agatha Christie she hadn't read yet. Both she and her mother were voracious readers of hers, Death in the Nile being one of Hermione's favourite books, while Murder on the Orient Express was her mothers. There was just something about a good crime thriller that ensnared her out of her general preference for romantic comedies and lighthearted tales. She plucked 'Sad Cyprus' from the shelf and was about to open it to the preface when she felt a tug on one of her braids.

She turned her head to find Tom standing far too close, his cologne making her head fuzzy, rolling a braid gently between his fingers. He was standing right behind her almost, and how had she not noticed him, she wasn't sure, as she could basically feel his warmth on her back.

“These are nice,” his tone was gentle and low, she turned fully to face him, and shrugged lightly.

“It's something new,” she replied, sometimes she didn't know how to talk to him, it felt as if recently their dynamic had changed without her knowledge. His hands lingered longer on her, and he seemed to find reasons to skim his fingers along her waist, like now, the hand that had held the braid skimmed slightly down her waistline and she shivered.

He tilted his head, regarding her with an expression she couldn't decipher, and honestly, he was too close for her to think of anything objectively. As if coming to a decision, he stepped closer, caging her against the bookshelf, his movements slow and precise.

He skimmed his finger up her bare arm, and she resisted the urge to shiver again, suddenly feeling cold. She'd worn a sundress today under her robes, which she'd taken off as soon as she arrived in her mother's office. He continued to brush his knuckles up across her clavicle before cupping his hand under her ear and around the back of her neck, his thumb tracing her jaw.

Her ears were buzzing and her mind was blank, she swallowed and let out a shuddering breath, looking him in the eye. In the low lighting of the library lamps, his normally light eyes were black, and she thought, momentarily, that it made him look quite feral.

“Tom-” she didn't get to finish or regain her bearings because he pulled her face up towards his and he was on her. His lips slanted over hers and his other arm was around her waist, pulling her flush against him. His kiss was nothing like Ron's, it was not gentle and patient, it was hard and possessive, and Hermione thought, almost a bit violent. He bit at her lower lip, causing her to gasp and close her eyes, he forced his tongue in, and she had half a mind to bite down. It lasted for only a few seconds more before she regained control of her shock before roughly shoving him away.

She didn't even bother trying to confront him, she turned a bolted towards the door, not even looking back to see if he would follow her. She got to her room and once inside, slammed the door, locking it magically and non-magically before sliding down it and sitting on the floor with her knees to her chest. Her heart was racing and blood was rushing in her ears, and she would have felt that she must have hallucinated all of what just happened, if her lips hadn't felt so hot and swollen. This was to say nothing of the pervasive burn in her lower stomach, that she refused to pay attention to.

Once she got her breathing under control, she tossed the book she'd been holding to the side, and put her head in her hands, balancing her elbows on her knees. Her mind was racing, and all she could think of was:  
  
'What was that?'

Riddle Library

Tom stood there, bracing himself against the shelf, steadying his breath. He had come to find her, knowing immediately through the wards when she arrived and where she was headed. He straightened his posture, adjusting his, now considerably tighter, trousers and running a hand through his hair. He was still in muggle clothing because he had been in the muggle world today with Helen to meet one of Riddle Arms regular collaborators, one that Helen had been familiar with, a man with the surname Seaborn.

He'd recalled Helen had been acting frigid with his since mid-winter hols, at first he assumed her distance was something due to personal reasons, however, now it was a week into July and she was still maintaining an aloof demeanour around him. He was starting to think she was up to something and had come to the decision that he would be keeping an eye on her. He'd been busy with interviews, but it would only be too soon that he would be a full apprentice of the DOM, and when he was, he'd vowed to pay more attention. He thought back to his other efforts, his imperius on Weasley was beginning to strain him, and he understood that he needed to do something about that soon, and that it needed to be done in a way that Hermione would not take the other boy back if he tried to return to her side romantically. He had assumed that by now he would have had Hermione well in hand, but she was proving to be far more difficult than he imagined. He was convinced that she'd even been finding reasons to be out of the manor, and he was starting to become annoyed with her willful character, if only she'd fall in hand as easily as his knights, he wouldn't have to think and act in circles as he did.

When he'd found her, she looked different, and at first, he hadn't been sure he'd liked it. Gone were the cloud of wild coils, and in their place sat long elegant braids that brushed teasingly against her backside. She'd been wearing a floral sundress, that left her arms bare, and it was of a pastel colour that complemented her darker complexion nicely, he'd noticed since summer started that she'd tanned a bit darker than her normal warm brown.

He had moved towards her carefully, not wanting to disturb her just yet, content with watching. She'd moved slightly to grab one of the books off the shelf and he watched as her braids had swayed around her waist, and he couldn't resist the urge to touch one. He seized a braid and had rolled it gently between his fingers, marvelling at the handiwork. It had felt smooth as silk, and the plait was neatly done, he had continued to admire it before she noticed his presence.

When she had turned to him, no hint of surprise on her face, something shifted in him. This was how it should be, her expecting him, always, and no one else. He had made a comment on her hair, and it felt like he'd been speaking underwater, his attention so focused as it'd been on all of her, her posture, her face, her wide eyes as she turned to face him. She hadn't stepped away, and his hand that'd been poised to hold a piece of her hair was now empty, so he'd brushed his fingers against her waist, noting the goose pimples that'd risen along her arm. He had brought his hand up to her collar, watching her face as he did so, and he hadn't been able to help his own shuddering breath as he'd watched her pupils widen, turning her brown eyes, black. It was at that moment, he'd decided on his course of action.

He brought a hand to his now woefully unoccupied, lips, before a movement from his peripheral caught his attention. He brought his hand down and turned his head to see someone scampering to hide.

“You can come out, I've already seen you, and I won't hurt you,” he spoke genially, thinking it to be one of the staff, and then being proven right when the kitchen maid peeked her head out, the wards told him her name was Maisie.

“Maisie, isn't it? Why are you here at this hour?” he asked, mildly annoyed that she kept her head down as she left her hiding position, he didn't remember her from when he'd visited last year, was she new?

“Am sorry, sir, ma'am allows the staff to use the library, ah was just returnin' a book, I didna ken tha you were here,” she spoke softly, voice trembling. What did she think he was going to do? Whip her for using the library? Why was she so afraid? He narrowed his eyes, coming up with a plan.

“Look at me, what's wrong with you? Are you hurt?” it was easy to think that she could be, standing curled in on herself as she was, her eyes snapped up to meet his, stammering an answer he didn't care to hear, as he wasted no time diving into her mind, and he did not like what he'd seen.

She had witnessed him that July day, and she had told Helen, he mentally cursed for a moment. This was bad, but there was nothing he could do about it right yet, if anything happened to the girl, Helen would instantly suspect him of foul play, and considering her talent of using the magical world as she pleased, she would have no trouble reporting him. This would need careful planning to subvert, Helen has had months on him with this information in her mind, and he cursed her again.

He gestured to the library, letting the girl put her book back and finish scampering away, before heading back to his own rooms, disturbed greatly by the new information. He scoffed as he passed Hermione's rooms, feeling a buzzing from her door. If he really wanted to get in there, he could, and no amount of muggle or magical locks could keep him out.

He probed the wards to find out where she was in her room, and was bemused that it told him that she was just on the other side of the door, on the floor. He felt slightly justified that he was affecting her as much as she was affecting him. He retired for the night, head swimming with his current conundrum, and as he fell asleep, he was greeted with dreams of braids and hands running through his hair.

Hermione's Room

A gentle knock on the door jerked Hermione out of her nap, she looked towards the clock to see that it was nearly midnight, and anxiously she turned her gaze towards the door. She had sat on the floor for almost an hour but had eventually crawled her way up onto the love seat, where she must have fallen asleep. Her head was aching from the new weight of the braids, she patted and massaged her scalp lightly as she got up to go see who it was.

She opened the door a crack and was surprised to find her maman, she opened her door wider, letting her in, and once she was, closed and re-locked it.

“What is it?” she asked, eyeing the small package her mother was carrying.

“I've been meaning to speak to you, mon coeur,” her mother started hesitantly, before slowly moving her way to the couches. Hermione followed her and retook her original curled up position on the love seat.

“Can you-?” her mother gestured to the room, indicating that what she wanted to tell her shouldn't be heard by anybody else. Hermione obliged, whispering the incantation and giving a flick from her wand to silence the room from potential eavesdroppers.

“I'm worried, mon coeur,” her maman began, fidgeting her hands in a way that instantly put Hermione on edge, her always stately and poised mother did not fidget, she wondered what it could be that had worried her so much. Instead of explaining, her mother nodded to the package on the tea table, Hermione grabbed it, noting the weight to it and flashed a worried glance back up at her maman.

“Open it,” she told her gently, and so Hermione did, delicately peeling the tape that held the brown paper to the sides, and unfolding it to find a cherry wooden box.

As Hermione made to open the box, her mother spoke, eyes trained to it in her lap.

“I don't speak of our time in France, and I'm sorry for that, I'm so sorry that I left you the burden of mentally dealing with the fallout, but please understand, I do not give this to you lightly.” she took a breath, “I dropped it off last week to be serviced, and picked it up today, I had waited to see if things changed when you came back, hoping I wouldn't have to-” she rambled, her pale cheeks flushed and her eyes shining.

Hermione paused from opening the box, a brief flash of panic ran through her, her mother bringing up their time in France was no light matter, and it instantly informed her of what was in the box.

“Why?” she asked, almost choking on the question. France had been a horrifying experience for them, however, mostly for her mother, who'd had been forced to kill while there, something that Hermione was now aware, damaged your soul.

“I think you may know.” she met her mother's eyes, and yes, she supposed she did know, feeling the ghost of Tom's lips against hers.

“I just want you to be safe,” her mother pleaded, and Hermione wanted to argue that it was the least safest thing in the world, but memories of Paris flashed through her mind and she couldn't.

Paris was a memory that Hermione thanked God she hadn't dreamt about when she was hexed, she didn't think she could have handled it if she'd had to relive both that, as well as the discovery of her father's body.

It had been mid-June of 1943, they had been squatting in an abandoned apartment complex in Paris, waiting for word on a rendezvous that would help them travel to Le Havre to board a boat that would ferry them the Brighton, it was an underground resistance helping minorities get out of Nazi-occupied France, but something went wrong the last night they were there.

It was almost eleven at night, and Hermione estimated that a local must have told a patrol of potential squatters, because they had been so careful, not using light once dark, they always made sure not to be seen, but it had been for naught. Three Nazi soldiers had broken down the door, they sounded like they had been drinking, treating it all as if it were some game, and not people's lives. They had chortled good-naturedly to each other as they circled her and her mother. Hermione's wand hadn't been on her, it had been under the pillow on the bed while she had gone to the washroom, while her mother had been at the kitchen table.

That night, those soldiers bribed her mother with Hermione's life in exchange for sexual favours. They had said that they didn't want to touch something dirty like her, and had insinuated that because her mother had a “mutt” for a child, then she was clearly a “free” woman. Hermione had watched, curled in on herself, tears blurring her vision as those soldiers debased her maman, and when they were done, they left her bruised and panting on the floor.

Unfortunately, the soldiers had no intention of keeping their word, as one reached for his gun and had taken aim at Hermione's head. Hermione had been trying to summon her wand to her, to no avail, and as the soldier cocked the shot and aimed, her mother was off the floor and had flung herself onto his shoulders. The others took aim, and in that moment of blind panic, her wand flew across the room and slapped into her hand, and as quick as she could, she stupefied the two aiming at her mother. The one she was clinging to had loosened his hold on his gun in confusion, and Hermione's mother wrenched it out of his hand, pointing it at his head and pulled the trigger.

The man dropped dead instantly, his body twitching momentarily while blood pooled and ran through the grooves in the hardwood floor. Her maman approached the other two soldiers, who were still unconscious on the floor, and with little fanfare, cocked the gun two more times and shot them both in the head, instantly killing them.

When she was done, she looted their pockets for ammo and money, stuffing the gun into the waistband of her soiled skirt. She stormed around the apartment collecting their things, urging her to ' _g_ _et up, we have to go NOW._ '

To this day, her mother had refused to talk about what happened, and Hermione never brought it up, along with never trying to even think about it. She had been sure to this very day that her maman had kept that very gun beside her at all times, well, until now. Hermione opened the box and looked down upon the rather small firearm that her mother had used to save their lives, it was a Sauer model, specifically made for Nazi German soldiers, with shiny metal, elegant engraving along the barrel, and its handgrip a black leather. Hermione tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

“You're worried about Tom, aren't you?” she asked, and before today, she hadn't wanted to believe that he viewed her in such a manner, to say nothing of her own confused feelings, after today, she didn't know what to believe. Was he capable of forcing himself on her? Well, any man could, really, but would he? Hermione didn't have an answer to that.

“I am worried about any danger to you, and though I have no proof of anything truly malicious from him, I know he is focused on you,” she paused, letting it sink in, “and I know you have magic, but until I can think of something else, please, please, just keep this with you,” she pleaded to her, and for the first time Hermione looked at her mother, looking passed the infallible mask she presented to everyone else, and what she saw broke her heart.

She looked tired, paler, sad, and so afraid, however, in her eyes was a spark of defiance that had Hermione nodding her head. She closed the lid on the box, and placed it back on the table, before getting up to wrap her arms around her mother.

“We'll be okay,” she said, her voice empty.

“My beautiful girl, I hope so,” her mother replied, still seated as she wrapped her arms around Hermione's waist. She glanced worriedly to the box on the table.

  
Hopefully, she would never have to use it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay.
> 
> earlier this week my grandmother passed away, and yea, it's been a tough couple of days. hope you're all well and safe.


	19. Chapter 18 - A Presumptuous Gift

Chapter 18 – Seaborn Estate – September 2nd, 1944

Tom exited the car on one side while the driver opened the door on Helen's side, allowing her to exit, waiting for her to walk around the car, promptly holding his arm out for her to take as she neared his side, which she did stoically. Their relationship had become rather strained in the last few months, well, at least since he'd discovered the little kitchen maid's secret.

He took in the vast property around him, and despite the nearing chilled autumn air or the generally murky weather of Great Britain, Seaborn Estate, located off the shores of Talland Bay, west of Plymouth, generated a tropical air. It was a sprawling Spanish style villa, with light terracotta roofing and white walls, it's many windows were large with no panes, and it boasted a series of interconnected villas with a large open drive to the main compound.

They were here, invited by Theodore Seaborn himself, for a celebratory dinner in honour of the liberation of France by Allied forces, in what had been titled Operation Overlord. Tom actually hadn't been required to attend, though he'd been invited, his reasons for accepting all had to do with the woman at his side.

True to his word, as soon as he'd finished his interviews and began his apprenticeship with the Department of Mysteries, he'd began to watch Helen more closely, and he had to admit, begrudgingly once more, that she impressed him.

He'd begun to notice that she avoided direct eye contact with him, which either told him two things: She was personally guilty of something regarding him, or she knew or suspected somehow, that he was a legilimens and was protecting herself from his snooping. At first, he'd scoffed at the latter notion, but realized he was underestimating her unfairly based on her lack of magic, as when he attempted to snoop her office, he found that anything he didn't already know (that she shared with him) was burned, and the ashes cleaned and disposed of.

So, he knew for a fact that she was hiding something, and without making his antagonism obvious, he was resorting to more underhanded tactics, like making an effort in Riddle Arms, in hope that someone let something slip, and he knew it to be a wise decision solely based on her displeased glare. He was already certain he had a lead, as when they'd left the hotel earlier, the bellboy had approached her with a telegram, that she immediately tucked into her purse, mentioning nothing of it to Tom, he watched her carefully to make sure she didn't dispose of it before he got a chance to view it’s contents, even going so far as silently confund her in the car to forget about it.

In a way, she reminded him of her daughter, once displeased it was nigh impossible to gain favour again, and he would know, Hermione had avoided him like the plague for two weeks after he'd kissed her months ago. He'd had to buckle up and actually apologize for his actions towards her for her to even consider occupying the same room as him, and even then, with him suppressing his urge to touch her, she was still hesitant to trust him, or even give him an inch.

It was during that last couple of months that he realized he had erred greatly, he couldn't crowd her to rely on him, he needed to lure her gently, coaxing her slowly, otherwise, she was fast to kick like a mule if she felt she'd been wronged. He thought of his imperius on Weasley, in early August, he'd adjusted it so that the boy would begin pursuing another girl, another one of Hermione's friends, Géraldine Dubois, which had been frighteningly easy as both of them had recently begun their careers within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

In a couple of weeks, he would slowly start releasing the imperius, not all at once, because that may clue Weasley into the idea that perhaps he hadn't been in control, by doing so gradually, it had more impact of being deduced as genuine. It bore to mention, that Weasley pursuing Dubois should also directly sabotage any attempt at reigniting whatever flame he'd had with Hermione, which was just how Tom needed it to work out.

He vaguely took in the interior of the manor house that they were led into, eventually being directed by wait staff into an exceptionally large dining hall where their host awaited them, with a slew of some thirty other guests.

He'd originally met Theodore Seaborn months ago, as apart of his official introduction as the Riddle heir, and to say the least, Tom hadn't been impressed, the man was an open book that he hadn't bothered using legilimens on him. The man positively hid behind his wealth, and although he could be considered handsome, that is, for an older muggle, Tom thought his spineless nature directly interfered with that perception.

He had no real motivations for his company, seemingly cruising by on obvious business ventures pertaining to the war, he even disdained his own son, who Tom had also met, a mixed-race boy, like Hermione, although no older than fourteen, despite him being the Seaborn heir. He wondered if Theodore Seaborn was a possibility to how his own father might have acted towards him, had he not been left to rot at Wool's, and he felt, once more, a brief satisfaction to having killed the man even more at that moment.

Helen had 'gifted' him his father's journal that she'd found last year, back in July, and not only had it cemented his disdain for the man, but it also created a feeling of intense repulse towards the witch that was his mother as well. A pureblood witch, a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, stooping to, presumably, potion a muggle was mortifying in its own right, but to be deserted by that same muggle? Disdainful, really.

The mere existence of love potions, in general, was distasteful, especially considering he'd been a target of his fair share of them throughout his last few years at Hogwarts, and he would never consider using them himself, not even for stubborn muggleborns with outrageously curly hair. No, he had other methods for her, one being the gift he'd been creating for her upcoming birthday, that took a lot of trial and error tweaking of traditional pureblood spells and potions.

The dinner went on with little fanfare, with Seaborn initiating a speech and toast congratulations to the British Army for a speedy and successful liberation of France from Nazi occupation. Tom was simply observing all who spoke to Helen, even while answering and diverting questions directed at his own person, but all he could really think of was that telegram she'd received, as it looked to be his best option. Tom turned his head to engage the host, asking questions about his company that he didn't care to hear the answers for, and it was noticing that Seaborn's eyes consistently darted towards Helen that gave him another idea. He took the opportunity as Seaborn brought his gaze back to him once more, going so far as to not only read his surface thoughts, but his deeper thoughts as well, and needless to say, Tom was greatly disturbed by what he'd found, but for now, tucked it away for future consideration.

It was in the car on the way back to the hotel that Tom silently cast the dormeo charm on Helen, watching as she fell into a temporary deep sleep, and pulled her purse into his hands and freed the telegram from earlier. He attempted to skim it, only to realize that it was in Italian, so he silently cast the geminio charm to make a copy of it, returning the original to its place in her purse and replacing the purse in her lap. He looked back out the window in a show of indifference as he ended his sleep charm. He quirked an eyebrow at her as she jerked awake and levelled him with a suspicious glare, before turning her gaze out her own window.

The telegram felt like it was burning a hole in his breast pocket, as a physical manifestation of his curiosity, but it was only once he was safely ensconced in his suite, did he pull it out for consideration.

He glanced at the cursive ' _Via Imperial_ ' and noted the date of printing was August 1944, he attempted once more to read the missive, his knowledge of French giving him the gist of its contents.

' Siamo fuggiti in Svizzera . Siamo al sicuro . Non manda la tua figlia finché noi non siamo nell'Italia . '

  * -Laura Innocenti




From what he understood of it, he didn't like what it said, but to be sure he tapped his wand against it, whispering the translation charm, cursing his lack of opportunistic upbringing once more. Though he was impressed that Helen even knew the language on top of French, and vowed to learn more languages in the future, for now, he watched the translation charm work it's magic, frowning at the appearing message.

' We have fled to Switzerland . We are safe . Do not send your daughter until we are back in Italy . '

-Laura Innocenti

He understood exactly what it wasn't saying, Helen was making an attempt or feeling the waters to send Hermione away. The copied note instantly burst into flames in his hands, and he watched at the ashes fell to the floor. This was unacceptable, who was Laura Innocenti? And what was her relationship with Helen? Tom realized that if he didn't act fast, and neutralize Helen, then Hermione would be snatched away from him, and that bothered him more than he'd liked to admit.

He paced his room, he had time yet, but he didn't know if Helen had other options aside from this Innocenti person. It incensed him that he could not personally kill her, not if he was trying to lure Hermione to him. Then, an idea hit him quite fast and he understood what he needed to do, he would remove Helen from the board, safely, and it was Seaborn who was going to help him do it.

Madam's Potter's Office – September 19th, 1944

Hermione scrunched her eyebrows, drawing her eyes from the files in front of her on the desk to the clock on the wall, it was three in the afternoon, she had about another hour and a half to finish the pile that Madam Potter had asked her to sort through. She'd received her NEWT results late in July, thankfully earning all Outstandings, including, most importantly, her Magical Law NEWT, she'd been so relieved that she wouldn't have to come up with a backup plan that she'd immediately rushed to owl Madam Potter with aforementioned results. She'd began her internship with Javehri & Potter firm within the first week of August, and it'd been about a month and bit now that she's been here.

When she'd started, she hadn't truly anticipated how busy it would be, or apparently, had been continuously for the past decade. Though she supposed it made sense, what with both Grindelwald's war, and the non-magical war, witches, wizards and all types of magical beings were being displaced from their homes, and like Hermione, seeking refuge in the UK.

Madam Potter had two other barristers working with her, there was Kai Fawley who was a bit older than her at twenty-three, he was a tall, bulky wizard who was rather large and intimidating until he opened his mouth, revealing himself to be an utter sweetheart after. He had a darker olive complexion with shaggy black hair and eyes so dark they were almost black as well.

The other barrister was a British-Indian witch by the name of Hetal Khanna, she was a bit older, at thirty-two years old, and was rather short and weedy looking, but with a lovely face and kind expression. Her hair was long, thick and wavy, of the darkest black, with eyes even darker, and long lashes that seemed to throw shadows against her cheeks, which were a medium brown in tone. She was a bit stern, but she'd always been helpful to Hermione when she'd had questions, she was also newlywed, though Hermione had yet to meet her husband, Arjun, yet.

Madam Potter was the one who did most of the work, taking the bigger, more difficult cases, while she relegated the easier, smaller ones to the other two so that they could build a clientele and steady momentum. Madam Potter's office specialized in immigration, which explained why they were so busy, again, considering the wars, though most cases didn't even go to court, negating the need to call upon the whole Wizengamot, when the majority were settled within the office. Most cases contained legal aid to claim refugee status, legal aid in the immigration process as a whole, and covered cases of hate-crimes against refugees and immigrants.

Hermione found it fascinating, that there were generally no representatives for the people in magical parliament, unlike the non-magical world, supposedly due to the insulation of the UK magical population, barristers worked hand in hand with the Wizengamot to create laws and bills; and though Scotland, Ireland and Wales essentially had their own ministry for daily affairs, the main UK branch, which was located in London, was where all criminal cases and laws were drafted and implemented.

That was how she knew she'd picked the right career, especially if she was going to try her hand and crafting a law that forbids elves working for free. Though currently her work was relegated to keeping the order of files and clients for each barrister, running deliveries and picking up parcels from other firms, and a bit of secretarial work (although that part was only temporary, as Madam Potter's regular secretary had to take early maternity leave when her baby decided to prematurely arrive).

Another thing that was different about interning here, was that Madam Potter insisted on paying her for her time here, and though Hermione didn't need the money, her Riddle account covering all of her expenses, she appreciated the gesture regardless. Though her work was a lot of running around and having to keep track of things, she didn't mind it, as it kept her mind busy from everything else going on in her life.

She had tentatively been allowing Tom to share her space again since he'd apologized for his behaviour and actions against her. Of course, she continued to be wary , after all, it would be foolish not to be, and if there was one thing she was certain about herself, it was that she was not so. Obviously, she was also uncertain of how genuine his apology had even been, but she was willing to give him a chance, at the very least, and his behaviour going forward would reveal how far that chance stretched.

She finished the last folder of her pile, and stretched her arms, popping her back in the process, looking back up to the clock to now see that it was four-thirty, and usually the time everyone decided to head out. It was her nineteenth birthday today, but since it was a Tuesday, she hadn't really had anything planned with friends, instead, they were all going to have a picnic together on Saturday, today she would just go home for dinner with her maman and Tom, if he showed.

He'd been recently busy, she knew from Harry that he was shadowing Lord Black, who was apparently his uncle Sirius's younger brother, and not to mention, similar to Jaismine, he'd begun his full apprenticeship with the Department of Mysteries.

She got up, and stacked her three separate piles before heading towards each office and depositing them in the bins outside beside the doors, and upon reaching Madam Potter's office, where she'd had her original meeting with her, she popped her head in after dumping the files in her bin and knocking, asking if she required anything more before she headed out. She was waved off by the older witch, who was buried, it seemed, in about ten different files all over her desk, all ajar. She said goodbye and turned back to the desk she was using to grab her cloak and purse, only to run straight into Kai.

“Heading out for the day?” he asked in a friendly tone, she nodded and stepped out of his way.

“Mhmm, what about yourself?” she returned politely, he placed the folder he was holding besides the one she'd just left into Madam Potter's bin, which meant he was hoping for some input from her.

“Yeah, going to head to the Leaky for some fish and chips, I was actually going to ask you if you'd like to join me?” he asked, slightly nervous, and Hermione blinked, surprised, before becoming hesitant. His request seemed innocent enough, but she was wary all the same, after all, Cormac's Slug Gala request had seemed innocuous of a request at the time. Either way, her day was spoken for.

“Unfortunately, I can't today, it's my birthday today and it's the first year in a while that I get to spend it at home with my mother,” she answered, trailing off nervously, wary of how he would take the rejection, but to her surprise, he brightened and nodded.

“Oh really? Happy birthday! Why didn't you say so earlier? And don't worry, I understand, it's a bit last minute,” he turned a headed towards his office to grab his cloak, and Hermione bit her lip. She hadn't considered trying to court again, not after what happened with Ron, or with her Tom shaped problems, but Kai seemed genuine enough, and she couldn't let what happened with McLaggen hang over her forever. He returned out of his office with his hat on his head, swinging his cloak around his broad shoulders.

“Kai, wait, would you mind if I joined you tomorrow?” she asked quickly, before she lost her nerve. His face brightened again, before breaking into a genial toothy grin.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” he stumbled, and she briefly compared him to a giant friendly bear, and they confirmed plans before heading their separate ways. She went to grab her things, perhaps it was about time she gave romance a shot again, after all, so had Ron.

He apparently had started to pursue Géraldine recently, and Hermione had been told directly by the girl herself when she'd seen her Saturday for tea. Her voluminous blonde hair had been tamed into a bun, her dark eyes wary and with a pink blush upon her normally pale cheeks as she told Hermione that she'd considered accepting, but wouldn't without her blessing.

There was a brief sense of betrayal before Hermione rationally stamped it out, if Ron and Géraldine liked each other and started courting, who was she to stand in their way? She was their friend, and despite her own history with Ron, that didn't give her the right to prevent their happiness, if that's what it turned out to be. She ignored the anxious twist in her belly when thinking about it, before shoving the thought away and grabbing a handful of floo powder to make her way home.

She stepped out of the floo and noticed her maman sitting at her desk, charming the ashes off her robes before removing them over her head, she winced as a button snagged on one of her braids, before slinging it onto the coat hanger.

She always wore regular non-magical clothing underneath her robes, and today she was wearing her favourite pair of blue trousers and red button-down with suspenders. She'd also gone to Angie's on Sunday after mass to redo her hair into braids again. She'd taken her original ones out in early August, and she could have sworn her hair looked longer by an inch when she stretched a strand. Angie had explained that her extended braid style was as much a protective style as the cornrows she's done for herself.

She looked towards her mother who had her ever-present glass of scotch in her hand, she tsked before taking the seat opposite of her.

“You're drinking too much.” she wagged a finger at her mother admonishingly, her maman only cocking an eyebrow in response.

“I think you mean that I am dealing with too many imbéciles,” she retorted, before leaning back in her chair to shuffle for something in her desk drawer, unearthing a small wrapped box.

“Happy birthday, mon amour,” she said, sliding the small gift across the desk towards Hermione, who gently reached over to take it in hand, bringing it to her ear to shake lightly.

She carefully peeled back the paper and opened the box, gasping at what she saw. Inside, on a delicate gold chain, was a flat gold pendant with an engraved Black Madonna, with African features, and exact replica of the necklace her mamie had always worn, which had been buried with her when she passed away.

Hermione was amazed that her mother thought to have one made, and she couldn't think of a more precious gift. She got up and went around the desk to hug her mother, who stood and returned the embrace.

“Thank you, it's perfect,” she said into her shoulder, feeling her eyes burn, she felt her mother's arms tighten around her.

“That's not all, your other gift is during dinner, which we should be getting to now,” she stepped back, looking at the clock, to see it was almost five on the dot. Her mother gestured for her to lead the way, and so she did.

They made it to the dining room and sat, Tom was not there, and Hermione wondered if he was busy and perhaps wouldn't show before the doors opened once more and he strolled in. He made his way to her side of the table, nodding a greeting towards her mother, carrying a small wrapped package, and handing it to her once he reached her side.

She took it carefully, eyeing it warily, before backing up her chair to place it in her lap to open, while Tom placed his hands in his pockets and respectively took a step back. Hermione noticed he tended to wear non-magical clothing around the manor, despite his vocal preference for robes, mostly due to the manor staff. She felt her face heat up because he did look quite dashing in a white button-up and slim black trousers, especially with his sleeves rolled up haphazardly to his elbows as they were.

“Happy birthday, Hermione,” he spoke lowly, his voice silky and his accent crisp, and she wondered briefly if he'd always had that accent or if he'd taught himself it. She thanked him, before shifting her gaze to the package in her lap, it was clearly a book, from what she could tell of the weight and size.

She opened the brown paper gently, unearthing an incredibly thin journal type book with sharp leather covers, and her name engraved on the bottom in gold. She glanced back up at him, until he nodded towards the journal itself, implying that she should open it.

She warily did and was at a loss for words at what she found within those pages. The first page was a sketch of her father's portrait, with his name, birth date, and the name of the city he was born in and the city he'd died in. She gently ran a hand down his face, it was a perfect sketch, it even had his shiny forehead. She grabbed at a napkin on the table, to dry her eyes, before she turned the page, and found her mamie with the same information, and her grand-père after that, though she'd never met him, as he'd passed before she'd been born.

She continued to flip through the pages, amazed as more and more names and portraits were displayed, and she realized soon enough that she was looking at her lineage through her father's side, flipping further through the journal as birthplaces stopped displaying Caribbean islands and started displaying West African countries, some from Nigeria, Togo and even Senegal.

“This is impossible, how did you-?” she asked, eyes wide as she glanced up at him, only for him to tap his nose, before looking around at the wait staff positioned around the room, to articulate that it was done with magic. Hermione nodded, resolving to ask him when they were alone, before getting up, and hugging him, he stiffened in her arms momentarily before bringing his own around her.

“Thank you,” she whispered in his ear before kissing his cheek, he squeezed his hold tighter around her for a moment before letting go. There were so many emotions she was feeling over the gift, on one hand, it could be seen as presumptuous, but the amount of detail, care, and skill that went into it softened any indignity she would have felt.

It was the just the norm and something she knew that many other people from all over the Americas and the Caribbean simply did not, and would never know where their ancestors hailed from, and she'd resigned herself to never knowing, simply due to the lack of records kept, but now, she had names and faces of those that came before her, and that in itself was priceless to her.

They both took their seats, Hermione placing her gift carefully on the empty chair next to her, before gaping at the food being brought out. At first, there was some standard British fare, but then there were platters and bowls of spicy shrimp, jerk chicken with rice, chickpea curry and coleslaw with diced mango. These were all foods she hadn't eaten since the summer of '42, and she incredulous of how her mother even pulled this off with the war going on, looking at her mother, who smiled knowingly at her.

“I've been planning and determining how to order the ingredients for a while if you must know, and I know no one can replace your mamie's jerk chicken, but I attempted to relegate her recipe to our cooks, so hopefully it's close,” she explained, before she turned to Tom, who was eyeing the shrimp warily.

“If you're anything like me, Tom, a lot of this will be a bit spicy for you palette, it certainly was for me when I started living there, so I also kept the standard British dishes, but feel free to try some of the Caribbean ones,” she told him, reaching herself for the chickpea curry and white rice.

“I'm not familiar with spiced food, but I have to say, it all certainly smells and looks appetizing,” he responded honestly, taking a bit of the jerk chicken and rice onto his plate and keeping a straight face as he took a spoonful of both. Hermione watched as she spooned spicy shrimp and coleslaw into her dish, she couldn't tell whether his acting was superb, or that he naturally had a high pain tolerance, which belayed his lack of reaction.

The dinner went by with chattering about her placement, as well as Tom chiming in once in a while, and afterwards, she head to the library with him, her recorded journal under her arm, looking through the names of her ancestors and grilling him about how his processes, and despite her wariness of him, she'd passed the evening rather comfortable with his presence.

  
All in all, it wasn't a bad birthday, present company included.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit of a short one. hope y'all enjoy.


	20. Chapter 19 - Italian-American Sinatra Fellow

**Mature themes mid-chapter.**

Chapter 19 – Seaborn Estate - December 31st, 1944

Theodore prowled throughout his packed home for the new year gala he was hosting, looking for a specific face, that is, one Helen Riddle. He noted some politicians, some generals, and nodded and chatted politely with the Prime Minister himself, before excusing himself to wander, and he considered briefly that she would not show, despite her RSVP.

He thought back to two weeks earlier when he'd received a most unusual letter, an invite to lunch with one Tom Riddle Jr.

At first, he'd considered that perhaps the lad had needed advice, he was, after all, scant eighteen years old and surrounded by women, with the weight of a massive arms empire on his shoulders, but once he'd met him, he was surprised to realize that that was not the case.

He remembered when Helen snubbed him at her own Christmas dinner a year ago, he'd been angry then, but had later understood her ire, as she had assumed that he'd thought her incapable. Perhaps he'd had a tiny bit, but stock reports of Riddle Arms he'd sneaked a peek at had proven him incorrect. He had attempted to convey his apologies and explain his true motives, however, hell truly hath no fury than a woman scorned.

No, his true motives had been behest at the honest curiosity from the young lad he had been, when he'd fancied her many years ago.

They had been teenagers, and he'd, personally, assumed them to be decently close, as were all the children of big company owners, they were encouraged to make lasting connections with each other that would transcend to when they were older. He'd gone to school with a few of the male heirs, but Helen, like many other heiresses, had been sent to an all-girls finishing school, so he'd only ever seen her during functions.

His fascination for her started when his father had impressed upon him the need to marry well, and that if there were any girl whose affections he should have been chasing, it should have been those of Helen Riddle.

His younger self, of course, always eager for his father's praise, had instantly latched to the idea, and so at every opportunity, he'd written and flattered her, and he had liked to think that she'd been receptive to the idea of marrying him, as he, her.

Then her father took her away to the Americas, and she had never returned, though his mind had continued to play juvenile scenarios in which she'd return and fall into his arms, becoming so very thoroughly in love with him, as he was certain she was meant to. Unfortunately, she hadn't, and he, disappointed, had married the next girl his father had snapped his fingers toward.

Her name had been Josephine, and she'd been all wrong, too short, too blonde, too shrill, he found he could not stand his bride solely based on who she wasn't. She'd given him a daughter, he had named her Helena, but she had tragically been a victim of cradle death not six months into her life, and he had self-piteously raged that she too had left him.

Her mother, his wife, had not lasted long after, in his grief, he had said some harsh words, blaming her for the death of their daughter, she had already been suffering from post-natal hysteria and had taken her life during the Autumn of 1923.

He'd thought the world a dark place, for years refusing to look for another wife, he'd felt disgusted by his inability to move on from a boyhood infatuation, as it continued to brutally tear apart his ability to care for another woman.

That is until he heard old Thomas Riddle speak her name during a gentleman's dinner in London during the winter of 1929, and it was as if a part of himself had been revived, the room had instantly become brighter. Riddle fouled her name to anyone who would listen, bemoaning her audacity of marrying a black man, and giving birth to a disgusting “mutt”, but Theodore hung onto every word, hungry for news of the woman that should have been his.

When he'd gotten back to his hotel suite that night, he'd broken every glass insight, he had been enraged when it had finally sunk in that she had married someone else. He'd then wondered at the parallels between them, and wondered if her daughter too would die early, and if so, would she come back?

With lightning under his skin, he'd travelled to the Soho district, towards the first brothel that he was familiar with, anything to scratch the itch that had seemed to take over his entire psyche. He'd been quite drunk at the time, throwing far too many pounds down for their 'blackest' prostitute available. He had wanted to know what Helen had felt, what she had been thinking, and so that night, he had buried himself in the girl given to him, with skin as dark as the night, and had lost himself to his mind's obsession.

It was three months later when that same prostitute showed up to his estate, three months pregnant. He had almost thrown her out, the idea that a woman of the night could track which client impregnated her had seemed preposterous to him. She'd explained that the night he'd visited her, it had only been her second night working, being only seventeen years old and that none of her other clients had 'finished' inside her, as he had. She begged that she was not asking for money for herself, only that he cares for the boy.

It was at the mention of a boy, a potential heir, that he'd relented. The boy, who he'd name Leonard, after his father, knowing that it would make the man turn in his grave, had become his legitimized son and heir. This had earned him the mockery of his peers for having a dirty child, but he hadn't cared, it had briefly made him feel more connected to her, the she-devil that held his thoughts and heart.

He circled the room, greeting guests, recalling that Christmas dinner of 1943 where he'd laid eyes on Helen Riddle for the first time in twenty-six years. For years, he'd taken women to bed that he was sure had looked like her, anything to scratch the itch, but nothing had compared to seeing the real thing. She'd still be lovely, of course, she had, to him, it was impossible for her to be anything else. Her face had lost its softness of youth, however, there was a steel and viciousness in her eyes that he hadn't recalled before, and it drew him like a moth to a flame, to where he couldn't help but ask her intentions to remarry. She had snubbed him in the misunderstanding of his intentions, but it was as soon as her cat-like eyes narrowed on him, that twenty-six years had fallen away, and he was once more a lad vying for her attention.

He had attempted to gain her favour throughout the year, having worked closely with her to supply the British Army and Navy armed vessels for Operation Overlord, but she'd been generally stoic to his overtures of reconciliation. So, imagine his surprise, upon lunch with Tom Riddle Jr, who in not so many words, insinuates that should Helen remarry, he would be happy to step down from his role in the company.

Theodore had to admit, the boy could play him like a fiddle, or like a mouse, he'd follow the flute, especially if there was the promise of Helen at the end of the line, the potential merger of companies as incentive certainly didn't hurt either. How the boy had guessed his most secret thoughts that, admittedly, bordered on obsession, he didn't know, and in this instance, he found he didn't care.

Finally, seeing her through the crowd, he felt his breath leave him, she was as beautiful as always. Her dress was long and black, making her pale skin stand out, she was as tall and elegant as ever with her dark hair in an intricate up-do, accessorized by a diamond-studded hair net that fell across her eyes. She looked positively deadly, or ready for a funeral, and he hoped it wasn't his.

“Here I was under the impression that you'd reject my invitation after all.” he bent down to speak lowly in her ear. She didn't startle, only turning to him and taking a slow sip of her drink, appraising him evenly, before answering.

“Since the success of Operation Overlord, I may have come to the decision that you might not be completely awful,” she responded with a hint of playfulness, and he put a hand over his heart in imitation of being shot.

“What could I have done to earn such ire? Meanwhile, I've been nothing, if not inspired by you,” he spoke both jokingly and earnestly, hand still over his heart. Noticing her drink was low, snapped a finger at the closest waiter to refill it.

“Oh don't take it personally, all you English are so stuffy,” she chuckled, holding her glass out to be filled, he quirked an eyebrow.

“Says the born and raised Englishwoman in her crisp Queen's English,” he retorted jokingly, grabbing another drink for himself from another passing waiter who levelled their tray at him, she titled her head to regard him and narrowed her eyes.

“Born and raised Englishwoman that spent three-quarters of her life in the Caribbean,” she began, “I am a born and raised Englishwoman, and yet, here among my contemporaries, I am an outsider to them.” she gave a small wave with her unoccupied hand to gesture at the crowd around them.

“They are simply jealous at how beautiful you've remained, while the rest of them our age are being held together barely with alcohol and narcotics,” he jibed, delighted when she almost spat out her drink to laugh.

“You flatter me, sir, but what makes you think I too am not being held together by alcohol and narcotics?” she asked with a raised eyebrow, tapping a perfect nail against her flute. He tapped the side of his nose.

“Oh that would be the catch, the secret is that we all are, some just hide it better than others,” he replied as he raised a glass to her. Both of her eyebrows shot up high and a spill of laughter fell from her lips that he felt he'd never be able to savour enough.

“Such honesty, if I may ask, what is your goal for all of this?” she gestured between them, indicating that she meant their conversation. He knocked his glass against hers in salute before leaning down to whisper in her ear.

“Perhaps I am simply looking for the company of a beautiful, accomplished woman tonight.” he watched as she blinked in surprise for half a second before righting herself.

“You're quite forward, sir,” she flat-lined, with one eyebrow cocked.

“Am I? At our age, what could possibly stop us? What rules are we being held to?” he asked, eyes taking her in, not so subtly, to inform her that he was quite serious.

“Hmm, perhaps you should keep talking then, and I may find an answer to that,” she answered, his heart thudding in his chest because it wasn't an outright rejection, he nodded, rising to the challenge.

  
“Fair enough.”

Malfoy Manor

Tom wandered through the massive ballroom, inserting himself here and there, strategically into conversations, generally working the floor, gaining sympathizers. His plans recently seemed to have stagnated, oh, he was just about finished shadowing Lord Black for the Wizengamot, and he was half a year into his apprenticeship in the Department of Mysteries, officially in February he would begin his claim for the Slytherin seat, and if all went according to plan, he would have it by July. What wasn't going according to plan was Hermione, and it made him want to grind his teeth into nothing, how could one muggleborn be so difficult?

His gift for her birthday had gone over better than expected, it had taken him two months to complete, mixing lineage potions and charms from different families. From the Malfoy family, he'd asked Abraxas for a way to find names of one's lineage, claiming it was to ensure there were no other of Slytherin's line that could blindside him once he made his claim (besides his uncle who was still rotting in prison) and if he sweetened the deal by sleeping with the other boy, that was his business and his alone.

From Antonin, and his own family's grimoire, he discovered a potion that could turn blood into memories, and that hefty bit of blood magic came with a price from Antonin, who had needed another wand for his own less than legal ventures, though to Tom, legality was usually the least of his concerns.

It was simply the way of Slytherin house that nothing was free, and Tom was all too happy to play by those rules if it got him something in return.

From Orion, his own price was the most dangerous, for an elf with artistic ability, that would not betray his confidence, two favours that he could ask at any time in the future, and they could be anything, and to ensure he did not go back on his word, he was requested a magical vow.

So, her gift had come at a generally hefty price, but it had only progressed his relations with her in that she didn't openly distrust him, and was willing to speak to him civilly, if anything, sometimes in a friendly manner.

His release of his imperius over Weasley had gone to plan, as to his knowledge, the other boy hadn't attempted to get back together with Hermione, in fact, he was still courting Dubois, last he'd heard. If he had, he hadn't heard of it and Hermione never spoke of it. He'd spent the last few months doing his level best to be kind and sociable to her, and truly it was exhausting, how anyone did it on a day to day basis, baffled him.

He'd instead focused his manipulative ways on neutralizing Helen, in a way that left her alive, that is. Months ago when he'd gone to the dinner hosted by the man, he had delved into his mind to find a plethora of issues that he could spend hours going over, but most importantly, he found that old Seaborn was quite smitten with Helen, and by smitten, he meant foaming-at-the-mouth obsessed.

Kaa, who'd finally gotten too big to sit around his shoulders, and spent all of her time in his rooms had somehow come to learn human sayings, and when he'd told her about Seaborn, she hissed something of a pot calling a kettle black, he liked to think he took the insinuation of his own regard for Hermione rather well, all the same, he decided it was probably a good idea to stop leaving the radio on for the snake.

Regardless, after discovering Helen's telegram, he'd played with the idea of simply killing that Innocenti woman, but refrained as it was a sure-fire way to ignite Helen into full action against him, so he decided he would use the opportunity that Seaborn so generously handed to him on a silver platter.

He'd sent a letter (the muggle way) to the Seaborn Estate, inviting the man to lunch, weaving the whole conversation into an understanding that would benefit both of them. Tom did not care to run a muggle company for the long haul, as he had too many plans to implement, and too much in the magical world that needed his attention.

He passed by and nodded briefly to Bella, who was on the arm of her new husband, Rudolphous Lestrange, their recent nuptials had taken place in October, before Samhain. Her marriage had put a complete stop to their shenanigans, at last, something he'd planned originally to do whilst still in school, but hadn't cared to persist with when she sought him out through the summer. Rudolphous Lestrange was an imperious wizard, at twenty-six years old, he was quite tall with a broad figure, dark hair and amber eyes. He was the older brother of Rabastan, who was now in his seventh year at Hogwarts with the other junior knights, Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle.

He was disturbed from his thoughts by a ping in the wards at Riddle manor, Hermione had just arrived home, and curiously he glanced at his pocket watch to see that it was only eleven. He decided to leave it, continuing his rounds, and raising his flute of champagne with all the other guests at the stroke of midnight, toasting as well, silently, to his nineteenth birthday. He checked the wards again, and seeing that she never left, decided to cut his night early to investigate.

Upon stepping out of the floo at a quarter after midnight, he checked the wards to find that she was in the sitting room, so he departed Helen's office, charming the ashes from his robes, not bothering to change into muggle clothing, to join her.

He heard a tinkling sound of music from the room as he walked towards it, the door was ajar, and he could make out from the light spilling into the hallway that she had the fire going in the hearth. The music he heard was coming from the radio that sat on the mantle, playing the crooning voice of that Italian-American Sinatra fellow she'd mentioned to him before.

The room looked cozy as he entered it, Christmas decorations were still up, with twinkling fairy lights along the mantle, and the giant tree in the corner lit up like a beacon. Hermione was on none of the couches, instead, she'd propped herself on the floor in a mess of blankets and pillows, with a side table that she'd dragged closer to her that held two bottles of wine, and a single-stemmed glass.

He peered at the bottles, realizing one was empty, and cast an eye at her. Her hair was unbound in all it's glory, with her head rested back against the seat of the couch she was leaning against, a hand placed over her eyes. Her other arm was slung over a bent knee, and her shoes and stockings had been tossed to the side.

She was wearing a formal dress that was hitched up just passed her knees, and with her feet bare, the scene she portrayed depicted a fanciful type of domesticity that sent a surge of something through his spine. He carefully sat on the love-seat to her right, now wanting to startle her.

“It seems you've had quite an interesting night,” he drawled slowly, watching as she moved her hand away from her face and loll her head to look at him, her eyes were red, indicating that she'd been crying.

“Oh yes, ringing in the new year with me, myself, and my misery,” she retorted, words slightly slurred. She was clearly inebriated, as if the empty bottle of wine hadn't already tipped him off, she picked up her glass from the side table and raised it to him.

“Happy 1945,” she chirped, before taking a sip. He quirked an eyebrow, curious as to what had happened to relegate her to such a state, so he voiced said curiosity.

“I feel like there is a story as to why you're here, as you are.” he gestured vaguely to the array of pillows and blankets, supremely amused by her antics. Her gaze followed his hand and she gave a quizzical look to the display she'd created, she quirked her head to the side, slurring out her answer.

“It seems I've made a mess even here.” she grabbed a pillow that had been by her foot and hugged it to her chest.

“Oh? And what else is a mess?” he asked, charmed at seeing this side of her, but wanting answers all the same.

“Ron announced that he and Géraldine have become engaged,” she answered, taking a breath, “he came back to me at the beginning of October, saying that he never stopped wanting me, but I, in all my infinite wisdom, turned him down,” she further explained. Tom stayed silent when she looked like she would say more, secretly delighted at the news.

“When he first broke up with me all those months ago, I would have taken him back in a heartbeat, but now? How could I do that to Géraldine? She doesn't deserve that duplicity,” she finished, attempting to take another sip from her glass only to find it empty, though she peered in it for good measure, she reached over for the bottle and began to refill it.

“Then why does the engagement bother you, if you turned him down?” he asked, taking the bottle as she offered it to him, waving his wand at the cabinet against the wall to open it's door, carefully levitating his own glass towards him, pouring himself a decent amount once it had reached his outstretched hand. She had a pensive look on her face from the question.

“I think it upsets me because it makes me feel easily replaceable, that no matter how hard I try, I'm still a refugee statistic in a country that doesn't want me,” she responded, despondently gazing into the fire. Tom was mesmerized by how it turned her already warm eyes into cutting pools of amber and burning fire, regardless that it seemed at that moment that her inner fire was smothered.

“You are irreplaceable, Hermione,” he replied, and seeing how effortlessly it came out of him, he surmised that he might be speaking the truth, for once. She turned her gaze towards him, confusion clouding her expression, brows furrowed that made him want to smooth his thumb over the line that had appeared in between them.

“Why do you say that? You hate what I am, if there is anybody to whom I should be deemed replaceable to, it would chiefly be you and your friends.” her words were soft and accusing, though she scoffed before he could answer.

“It must kill you to want me as you do,” she jibed, levelling him with a baiting stare. He tilted his head, always intrigued when her brutal honesty came to play, daring her to continue, he stayed silent, and she did not disappoint.

“I mean, why else would you kiss me all those months ago?” she continued, smiling wryly, glancing critically down at her wine, before swirling it, “your ancestor would be rolling in his grave.”

Tom thought she certainly had a point, Slytherin would be turning in his grave if he knew that his descendant wanted a muggleborn, if he wasn't already spinning from his mother's actions, that is. He decided to rise to the challenge and take her bait.

“Yes.” she snapped her eyes back up to his, apparently surprised by his honesty.

“Does that bother you? That someone wants you enough to let it be known,” he asked, as she looked back at the fire almost guiltily.

“No, it doesn't, what bothers me is that you don't care for me,” she replied, taking a small sip, keeping her gaze on the hearth, as though she might lose this newfound nerve of hers if she looked at him.

“I want to be wanted, Tom, everybody does, you included, but I want to be cherished with dignity and respect.” she put her glass down.

“I want love,” she finished, and he scoffed, the idea of love, to him, was foolish, and she glared at him.

“Love is weakness,” he retorted, though lowly, he tilted his head at her, “I've had to learn the hard way that to let people into your life in such a way is to give them power over you, and that they will use it to tear you down at a later date.” he thought of the many aids at Wool's who had loved and cared for him as a child, only to turn around and treat him with scorn and hostility at the first signs of his accidental magic.

It felt like there was acid in his stomach at the indignation of having once craved their affection, just once more. He felt a hand on his own and looked down in surprise, noting the stark contrast between his skin and her own.

“No, it's not, and there will always be people who claim to love you, who don't actually, but they are not indicative of what love really is,” her voice was soft as she spoke, though still a touch slurred.

“It's give and take, freely and happily,” she continued, he took hold of the hand that was on his, and gently brought it up to brush a kiss against her knuckles, hearing a sharp intake of breath that almost undid him.

“And sex?” he asked, smiling slightly as she sputtered, though she hadn't wrenched her hand away yet. He placed his glass down on the table beside him, allowing his other hand to finger the snake bangle on her wrist, satisfied that she seemed to wear it often.

“Sex is after love and marriage, it's wrong beforehand,” she answered, face darkening with what he assumed was blush, as she didn't turn red. His lips against her hand stretched into a smirk.

“Did you learn that from your bible? Tell me, what did it say of same-sex relations? Didn't two of your male friends recently get married? Or do you only cherry-pick what you want to believe?”

“No, it's a personal choice, a promise between myself and my faith,” she pulled her hand away, and he let it go, watching as she held it to her chest, but Tom was not finished with the discussion, he levelled a stare at her.

“How can you have faith in so many contradictions? What has faith done for you? What has it done for your friend Géraldine, and her family?” he asked, not mentioning that he'd looked into all of her friends thoroughly back at Hogwarts.

She stood quickly, as if trying to eject herself from the conversation, but stumbled and tripped on the blanket that had twisted itself around her foot, falling right into him. He caught her, and like a snake, lunged immediately to grip at her hips to hoist her up into straddling his lap, the skirt of her dress riding up to her hips. She sputtered and pushed at his chest, but his hands cupped around her waist, holding her down.

“I want you, but you deny yourself everything I can offer you for such superficial things,” he whispered against her jaw, wrapping one arm around her waist to keep her seated, his other hand he brought down in front of her, brushing his thumb against her center over her knickers, surprised to note that she was a bit wet. She froze at his touch, and he looked up at her, noticing that her pupils were dilated, and her breathing became choppy.

“Kiss me,” he demanded gently, looking up into her face, studying her conflicted expression.

“It doesn't have to mean anything if you don't want it to, as biological humans, this is the most natural act,” he whispered, returning to kiss her jaw, lightly applying pressure with his thumb, caressing her clit through the fabric. She gasped, and unconsciously ground herself down on his hand, bringing a hand up to grip the back of his neck as if to steady herself from the onslaught of new physical sensations.

“This is wrong,” she breathed, before giving a small whine when he moved his hand in a circular motion.

“No, it isn't, because this isn't sex, this is just me making you feel good with the parts your god has given you,” he paused, considering gleefully for a moment that she might not be a creationist, “or do you believe in Darwinism?” he joked, very much aware of his own straining erection in his robes, while she panted on top of him. He pressed harder and her eyes snapped closed, and her mouth opened in a silent cry.

“Stop talking.” she angled his head up with the hand that had cupped the back of his neck and slammed her lips down onto his, his arm gripped her tightly against him, as her hips moved with his hand. He felt feral at that moment, biting at her lips until he felt her legs grip against his tightly and shudder, she broke their kiss to cry out. 

He felt like an acolyte praising a goddess, holding his hand still to allow her to ride out her orgasm, mesmerized at the sounds she made, yet cursing that it hadn't lasted longer.

She opened her eyes to look at him, wearily as she panted from exertion, her eyes were glazed, and she was still very much inebriated, in fact, he was sure that had she been sober, she'd have fought him tooth and nail. He tried to adjust his position to relieve pressure from his own arousal, something he'd have to take care of when he got back to his own rooms.

“Was that so bad?” he asked, and her answer was to drop her head onto his shoulder, continuing to try and regulate her breathing.

“Everything is spinning,” she mumbled, turning her face into his neck, lips brushing against his adam's apple.

“You did have a lot to drink, I'll help you to your room,” he murmured, adjusting her position to carry her. He restrained a wry grin because the last time he'd carried her like this was almost exactly a year ago. He didn't hear an answer, so he figured she was out, and with a few flicks of his wand, the fire was out, the radio was off and the room righted itself.

He carried her to her room, carefully arranging pillows on her bed and laying her on her side, his proficiency at dealing with inebriated teenage boys during his time in Hogwarts becoming convenient.

He refilled the water jug on her nightstand and headed out. It wasn't until he was back in his own rooms, undressed, and once again, like last year, in the shower, did he palm himself and begin stroking, one hand steadying himself by clutching the shower curtain around him.

He imagined that, instead of his hand, that it had been his cock buried deep inside her and she sat atop him, grinding and jerking her hips against his pelvis to find her release. His hand moved rapidly, until his knees buckled at the rising crescendo, causing him to kneel awkwardly in the clawfoot tub, his other hand moving from the curtain to grip the edge of the tub.

He remembered the cry she made as she reached her orgasm and came immediately after. When he was finished and he could see straight again, he leaned back so that he was reclined against the back of the tub, the water from the showerhead still spraying down on him.

  
“Happy birthday to me,” he chuckled wryly, staying there for a few more minutes, before washing himself and going to sleep.

Hermione's Room – The Next Morning

Hermione woke up in her bed to the bright sun from her window and vomit crawling up her esophagus, she stumbled out of bed and ran to the washroom, just barely managing to throw herself to the toilet on time before whatever she'd eaten and drunk the night before came screaming back up.

When she was done, she rested her cheek on the cool toilet seat, not even caring how disgusting it might be, because the room was spinning and she was positive that she was still a little drunk anyway. Once she wasn't seeing double of everything, she reached from her vantage point on the floor and turned on the shower, she noticed she was still wearing yesterday's dress, and for some reason, her stockings were gone.

Slowly, memories from the night before came trickling back, she'd gone to Potter manor last night for a new years celebration, and the Weasleys, of course, had been there, and everything had been great, until Ron announced that he and Géraldine were formally engaged. She remembered smiling and congratulating them and then leaving, refusing to ruin the moment for her friend. Géraldine had looked so happy and hopeful, and besides, she _had_ turned Ron down when he re-approached her, telling him that she was more comfortable staying friends.

Besides, there was her on and off thing with Kai, they've been essentially testing the waters of courting, and had kissed a few times, but her whole brain became messed up when Ron approached her that she had automatically put him at arm's length.

She knew Kai was disappointed, especially considering she was basically keeping him a secret, she just felt that she had jumped the gun with Ron, thinking she jinxed their relationship that way, causing it to fall apart. She knew that it was childish and foolish to think like that, but she _really_ did not want to go through another breakup as she had with Ron, because that had been incredibly unpleasant.

Kai was sweet, despite his disappointment at the pace of things, he hadn't pressured her into doing anything she wasn't comfortable with, and he always made sure she was consenting before he so much as kissed her.

She undressed, tying up her hair into a bun before climbing into the shower. She remembered flooing home, stealing two bottles of wine from her mother's shelf and wholeheartedly treating herself to a pity party. She'd drank a whole bottle and a half by herself, feeling more and more depressed as she went, until Tom showed up.

At the thought of Tom, she froze, suddenly remembering how the night ended.

  
'No, there's no way,' she thought, the warm water spraying down on her did nothing to prevent the chill of mortification that gripped her then.

  
Had she? She must have hallucinated that, there's no way she would have done that. Her hand trailed down to her private area, she'd never actually touched herself before, at least, not for masturbation purposes, the voice of her mamie reaming through her head anytime she got the urge. Years of being told that it was shameful and dirty had generally put her off of it.

She prodded the area curiously after washing herself, it didn't feel different, she expected it to be sore or something, but it felt normal. She turned off the shower and plugged the tub to fill it so that she could soak her hangover away in a bath. The shower had cleared her head a bit, but her brain still felt like it was pulsing and she was still incredibly nauseated and dizzy. She dropped some oils into the water filling around her legs and sat down, lounging against the back of the tub.

She tried not to think about how Tom had restrained her on his lap, or how he pressed a hand against her core, especially not when she had always redirected Kai's hands when they'd travelled too far south. Guilt raced through her and she splashed some of the water on her face, what was wrong with her? How could she let him do that?

When he'd kissed her all those months ago, she'd been terrified of him forcing himself onto her, especially after that midnight visit from her mother, the gun still hidden away in the bottom drawer of her side dresser, unused, as for months, nothing had happened. Tom had apologized for the stunt and had respectfully, as much as could be expected of him, kept his distance.

Yesterday, he hadn't exactly forced her, she'd done most of it on her own, overcome by those new sensations, he'd just kept his hand there and moved it a bit, though, in her defence, she'd also been quite drunk.

Irritably, she conceded that it had felt good, incredible even, hesitantly, she brought a hand to the area in the water, imitating the same motions she vaguely remembered him doing. Almost instantly, she felt the pressure rise, and gasped, arching her back against the wall of the tub, the water swishing over the edge and spilling onto the floor as she moved her hips with her hand until she realized what she was doing and wrenched it away, panting.

A knock on the bathroom door startled her, and she relaxed when she heard her mother. She unplugged the tub, wobbled out and grabbed her robe. Tying the rope around her waist, she wondered if she should tell her mother what happened, she felt embarrassed and ashamed by it and felt a bit alone, but it was rather new and serious, so perhaps she could? She decided that moment to do so before she lost her nerve.

“Maman, can I talk to you about something?” she asked, opening the door, feeling self-conscious. Her mother was in the sitting room, so she made her way over, still in her bathrobe.

“Of course,” she started, eyeing the robe, “Why don't you get dressed, I've already asked for tea, coffee and scones to be brought up.” Hermione nodded, not really feeling the scones, but looking forward to some coffee.

While dressing, and fastening the buttons of her blouse, she thought about what to tell her mother. She felt if she told her about what Tom and she did, that she may worry and overreact, however, as with anything involving Tom, she knew she should tell her. She nodded to herself, resolved to tell her everything and walked back to the sitting room once she finished slipping on a pair of trousers.

The coffee and tea hadn't been brought up yet, but she began talking, about Ron and Géraldine, everything that happened with that and how it made her feel, Tom's kiss months ago, all about Kai and her guilt, ending it all with what had happened last night, only briefly pausing when the maid did come with the promised drinks and snacks.

Her mother sighed through her nose and pinched the bridge between her eyes in irritation.

“Putting aside Tom's actions for now-” she pointed at her, “-there is nothing wrong with masturbation, and there is nothing wrong with sex before marriage, in fact, I encourage it.” Hermione made to cut her off, but her mother held up a finger to stop her.

“Listen, I know what you're going to say, but your mamie had very...strong ideas about sex, marriage and religion, and I am sorry you've come to think that as the only way,” she began, “not even your father played by her rules, and she was his mother.” Hermione repressed a smile at the thought of her papa, remembering all the times he joyfully, and in an optimistic manner, turned people down, or disagreed with them with a smile on his face.

“Religion and faith have no place in the bedroom, that is what I came to believe for the longest time. It is fine to have faith, but you cannot let it control your life to such an extent.” she began to make herself a cup of tea, while Hermione started on her first cup of coffee, sighing in bliss at that first sip.

“Choosing to save sex for after marriage, let me put it bluntly, is bad. It puts pressure on the marriage itself for the sake of sex, and it also opens you to be manipulated by your spouse, and this can happen regardless of whether they are a good person or not,” she paused, levelling a stare at her, “when has a lack of information ever helped anyone?”

'Absolutely never,' she scoffed in her mind but stopped her train of thought because she understood what her mother was saying. She wrinkled her nose.

“So you and papa...? Before you were married?” too scandalized at the idea of her parents having sex to even think of saying the word in the same sentence as them. Her mother snorted and repressed a goofy grin.

“Not that I ever want you to think of myself and your papa in such a way, but since it pertains to the topic at hand, yes,” she paused, possibly for dramatic effect, “in fact, we got married mostly because we found out I was pregnant with you,” she chuckled wryly.

“Your father was an extremely handsome doctor that I helped as psuedo-nurse during the second wave of the Spanish flu, honestly, it's basically a story fit for a harlequin novel.” Hermione put down her coffee cup and slapped her hands over her ears, refusing to hear anymore before it sent her back to become reacquainted with the toilet, while her mother laughed.

“On a serious note, having sex or not, should be a personal decision, and you should only do it because you want to, and your partner is willing, full stop.” taking a sip of her tea, “and if you do decide to wait until marriage, you may find that you dislike it, simply because men's pleasure is generally easier and faster to reach than a woman's.”

“Which leads us back into masturbation, there is no shame in wanting to know your body, it doesn't make you less religious, or a bad Catholic, it just helps you understand your body, and what you like, so that it may enrich your marriage when you are eventually ready to take that step,” she finished, and Hermione looked into her coffee, pensive of what she'd just heard.

“Now, as for Tom, what he did yesterday was wrong, you may have gone along with it, but he knew you had been drinking and that you were not of a clear mind, and he used that to his advantage.” Hermione nodded, understanding, feeling both miffed and confused about what she felt at all, about anyone, Tom, Kai, and brief flashes of Ginny's smile and Jaismine's dark eyes fluttering through her brain, causing her to flush, remembering Tom's word from last night.

“Is it wrong to like the same sex?” she asked, she knew she didn't care that Seamus and Dean were together, or Lavender and Parvati, but she felt exempt from that acceptance due to her faith.

“Have you been feeling things for girls?” her mother asked, her expression curious, and Hermione shrugged, feeling self-conscious again.

“I don't know,” she answered, “I don't know how I feel.” she took another sip of coffee, finally plucking enough hunger to grab one of the scones, a blueberry one.

“Well, there are a lot of laws against it in many countries, though I cannot speak for the magical world, and those laws are generally put in place by those afraid of those different than them, remember darling, the law is not infallible,” she paused, as if trying to come up with a better answer, “I do not personally think that it is wrong, homosexuals have existed for as long as there have been humans, so how can it be? I think it's just another thing you shouldn't allow your faith to control,” tapping her nail against her teacup.

“You have to separate religion and faith from your daily life if you want to better understand these things about yourself because in delicate cases like these, your faith can hurt you, which it should never do.” Hermione nodded again but decided to change the topic, understanding that it would take a lot more self-reflection before she was comfortable with an answer.

“And Tom?” she asked, and her mother sighed wearily.

“I don't like it, regardless of what you feel for him, you need to be careful because he will absolutely set you on fire to keep himself warm, as all self-serving people are capable of. Why don't you try to continue things with that Kai fellow? He seems nice from what you've told me about him,” she answered, biting her lip.

“If Tom does get to be too much though, tell me, I may have a plan, though the war has tied my hands a bit. It will be hard, but I have somewhere you can go to when he hopefully cannot follow.” Hermione gaped at her mother's insinuation.

“You want me to run and hide from him?” she asked, stunned.

“To keep you safe? Absolutely,” her maman answered, with a hardline to her tone, and Hermione fidgeted her hands before nodding.

“Hopefully it won't come to that?” she asked, the idea of having to start over again seemed deeply unpleasant but would go along with it if her mother was confident in it.

  
“Mon coeur, I hope so too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this one long? i cant tell anymore.
> 
> a glimpse into seaborn's mind, and kaa is a sassy snake
> 
> have some comprehensive sex talk with mama. i may have based a lot of hermione's issues on those that i myself had growing up, i mean, write what you know, right? i wish i had someone sit me down for this kind of talk when i was nineteen, would have saved me a lot of self-hatred and years of confusion. of course, its not a perfect sex talk, i did try to filter it as much as possible both through a 1940s lens and helen's general personality. also updated relationship tags to include ron/ofc, cause i played with the idea of killing him, but decided i didn't like that, because it feels too closely of ron bashing, which i abhor.
> 
> i aggressively wrote this chapter after a shitty day at work, as some of you may know, my grandmother passed away last week from covid, and it was genuinely upsetting to have to serve customer after customer at starbucks, almost none of them bothering to wear masks or gloves, and who are pretty much not taking this pandemic seriously whatsoever. so im throwing myself into writing as a way to avoid thinking about it??? does that make sense?
> 
> anyway, I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, hope you're all staying safe and healthy!


	21. Chapter 20 - The Half-Baked Plan

**.Smut end of chapter with small age difference.**

Chapter 20 – Weaser Den – January 19th, 1945

The alarm clock chimed on the side dresser and freckled arm slithered out of the blankets to silence it. Ron sat up, and with a great yawn, brought the alarm clock to his face to further scrutinize it with blearily eyes. It was six in the morning, on a Friday, which was also a work day, so running a hand over his face, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and lunged himself into standing up. As he walked to the window to open the curtains, flicking his wand to make the bed, a knock on the door sounded.

“You up, mate?” Harry's voice called through his bedroom door, they had gotten a flat together right out of Hogwarts in Horizont Alley, where most residential spaces were relegated to.

“Yeah, yeah,” he responded, voice still groggy, as he threw a clean set of robes over his head and began fastening the collar. Once finished, he grabbed his boots in hand and opened his bedroom door, dropping them in the living area before heading to the washroom.

“You finished with the loo?” he called out, and hearing a vague 'yeah' from the direction of the kitchen, he closed the door and locked it. He went about his business, washed his face, charmed his teeth clean before running a brush through his long orange hair, and braiding it. When he was done, he nodded approvingly to the mirror, and walked to the kitchen, hoping Harry had left some hot water for his tea.

Their flat was of an average size, with a combined sitting and dining room, with walls charmed to be a Gryffindor red. It had a small kitchen, with a seated bar, two bedrooms and one full bath, and a few scattered closets throughout.

His roommate and best mate was sitting at the bar that bordered the dining room, toast in hand and Daily Prophet laid flat against the counter with his tea beside it. His hair was it's usual unruly mess of black curls, and his collar was only half done up.

“Oh you got a letter from Géraldine, the owl came not even five minutes ago,” he said, mouth full of toast, while he wiped his hands together to rid them of crumbs, before grabbing the folded and sealed parchment to his right and handing to him. Ron, finished making his tea, made to grab it while taking a sip, pinching it between his hip and the counter to pluck open the wax seal, before bringing it up to his face to read.

_Dear Ron,_

_I cannot stop thinking of tomorrow, I'm so nervous, what if she changes her mind? What if she decides she doesn't believe us? Would she really take him away? I know if you were here beside me, you would tell me not to panic, and think myself into an anxious hole, but I cannot help it. I know we've already agreed on plans, and I know you know what to do, but for my peace of mind, remember to meet me at the portkey office tomorrow at 9, please forgive my worrying, I will see you later._

_-Dine_

He suppressed a grin, reading her letter, imagining her wild blonde hair frizzing with anxiety as she tried to make sure everything was perfect. He'd began courting her in August, though if he tried to remember why, all he could come up with was that it had just felt right.

Though, of course, he'd bungled it all up in October when he'd begun to think of Hermione again, second guessing his decision of breaking up with her, and he'd foolishly brought it up to her, only to be rejected and affirmed that it was better than they solely stay friends.

Ron winced at the memory, he was not proud of himself for that, but he hadn't known what had gotten into him. He'd been so ashamed of his actions that he'd confessed of what he'd done to Géraldine, and had promptly broken up with her, citing that she deserved far better than him, and she'd agreed, and then their trip to France had happened.

While they'd been together, Géraldine had told him about her siblings and how she wanted to find them, and he'd agreed to help her, and they had originally been planning to go to France in late October, as not only had France had been liberated from Grindelwald's Army in September, it had been liberated from the Germans in August.

The British magical army had taken a page out of it's non-magical counterparts' book and formed an Allied Force with the US, Canada, and the French Revolutionaries to drive Grindelwald's forces back into Belgium, Luxembourg, and Germany itself, by applying guerrilla tactics to sabotage their supplies, wards and bases, eventually becoming the victors of a great battle that had taken place on the French border, near Strasbourg.

Not a day after they'd broken up had he caught her trying to sneak into the lift going towards the Department of Magical Transportation, of course, he'd followed her and confronted her.

He'd found out then that she'd been more hurt by his break up than his act of speaking to Hermione, because she considered him talking to Hermione as closure, that she needed to distract herself by doing something productive. So she'd decided she was going to go to France and start looking for leads on her siblings, stating that she hadn't wanted to bother him, especially since they weren't together anymore.

He'd felt wretched in that moment, like he couldn't do anything right, so without thinking it through, he declared that he would come with her to France, right then and there. He was concerned for her safety, because even though France had been liberated, that did not mean she was not at risk as a Jewish muggleborn in a country she'd originally fled from.

She'd told them that she wanted to find out if her parents or older brother ever came back, as well as trying to track her siblings. So, without any more preamble, they'd disappeared upon the portkey activating in the Department of Magical Transportation dispatch office, and had reappeared in an alley beside La Basilique Notre Dame de Fourviere in Lyon, France.

He had followed Géraldine through the streets and back alleys, until they hit a road of townhouses and other residential flats. He'd watched their backs as she led him to a single townhouse, with grimy windows, and rusted door, and overgrown weeds sprouting through the brickwork of the stairs. Ron was certain that with maintenance and upkeep, it would have been a stately looking home.

He watched as she used an alohamora on the door, slowly walking in, he gazed at their surroundings to make sure nobody was watching before following her in. What he'd seen had broken his heart, the interior was destroyed, with moldy, broken furniture, empty drinking bottles and cigarette butts littered the floor. Géraldine had been devastated, and he'd held her while she cried, before helping her try to recover anything in tact that had belonged to her family.

Ron finished his tea, and placed his mug in the wash basin, then glanced back over at Harry who was watching him curiously.

“I know I've said it already, but are you sure you both aren't acting rashly?” he asked, folding the Prophet in half and linking his fingers as he leaned his elbows onto the counter top, “I mean, your brother and Fleur just got married this summer, and at this rate your mum is gonna think her sons are being seduced by the French on purpose,” he finished, jokingly.

“Listen mate, I know what it looks like, but believe me, I'm sure of everything I'm doing,” he responded, grateful that his friend still looked out for him, even outside of Hogwarts.

“If you say so,” he chirped, holding his hands up in defense, causing Ron to shake his head with humour, before turning away towards the front entrance and swinging his cloak over his shoulders, and heading out the door. Their flat didn't have a fireplace, and as they hadn't gotten around to getting a permit to have one put in, he needed to walk to the end of the alley where the public floos were located, he figured maybe he'd pick up a scone from the cafe near them also, maybe also grab one for Géraldine.

During his walk, he reminisced some more, back at her childhood home, they'd managed to find some intact photos, that she'd bundled and placed in her bag, and it was leaving the house, a bit crestfallen, that they had been approached by one of the neighbours who had seen and recognized Géraldine's hair through the window of her own house across the way.

He braced the cold January wind, huddling deeper into his cloak, simultaneously casting a warming charm on himself and he made a dash for the door on the cafe. The neighbour had been Marie-Claire Devereaux, she'd invited them back into her own home, and it became apparently clear on why as soon as they'd sat down in her sitting room, when a boy, no older than five, peeked his head curiously through the entryway of another room, and it was clear who he was, as he'd born a remarkable resemblance to the girl at his side.

Jean-Pierre Dubois, or Devereaux, as he'd been called since Marie-Claire and her husband had taken him in to hide him from the Gestapo, had been outside with his older sisters and a few other children from around the street when they'd first showed up at the Dubois residence, and immediately, the neighbourhood women had each picked a girl, Marie-Claire grabbing the young boy and hidden them in their homes, even going so far as to claim them as their own.

The boy had been no older than one, while the girls had been three, five and eight respectively, all of them with families who'd eventually fled and taken them with them, so Marie-Claire unfortunately had no knowledge of where they could have ended up. Suffice to say, Géraldine had been overjoyed at seeing her brother again, and though he didn't remember her, he'd warmed up to her immediately.

Ron, paused his recollections to order his favourite raspberry scone, with cream and jam, and a lemon scone for Géraldine, he paid the 4 sickles for them, before bundling them up in their paper bag and storing them in his cloak pocket.

He thought back to how Géraldine's face had dropped and paled when Marie-Claire had informed them that the Gestapo had found out about her and her husband's treachery, and they'd tried to defend themselves by saying they'd baptized the child, when truthfully, that had been the only thing that had saved Jean-Pierre's life, however, it had condemned her husband's. He'd been taken outside and shot in the back of the head, for the rest of the neighbourhood to see, for attempting to fool them. She informed them that the war had ruined her livelihood, and that as soon as it ended, she would be taking Jean-Pierre and restarting their lives in Quebec, Canada.

He'd watched and for the second time that day, his girlfriend? Friend? Had broken down beside him, and she'd begged Marie-Claire to reconsider, as the other woman watched sympathetically, until Géraldine begged to let her adopt him, that he was her only family, as she still didn't know whether he parents and older brother were alive, trying to convince the other woman that she had a stable job and had even finished school in England.

Marie-Claire declined, stating that although she felt for her, that as an unmarried woman, she had no business raising a child that was not her own, and that she should look to reinventing her life, to finding a husband and starting her own family. Ron saw the absolute devastation on her face, and before he could think through his plan, he chimed in that he was her fiance, and that he'd help her raise her brother, as well as their own children whenever they made their appearance, explaining that the war was a reason he hadn't been able to splurge on a ring just yet.

Géraldine had frozen beside him, before going along with his ploy, but Marie-Claire was not completely convinced, and stated that she wanted to see documents of their impending nuptials, as well as proof that they had every intention of living together and being able to provide for a child. So, they scheduled that they would return to Britain to claim all of said documentation and send word when they'd be able to return with them, but promised that they would keep in touch via telegrams and letters, which they had.

When the portkey eventually brought them back to the Department of Magical Transportation, Géraldine had torn into him, almost lecturing his ear off for such a hair-brained scheme, but he wore her down, and he reasoned with her. Even if they wouldn't be romantically involved, was it not worth getting married so that she could have custody of her younger brother?

If they showed Marie-Claire that they were serious about their marriage, then she'd get to raise Jean-Pierre, and they'd deal with the marriage after the dust settled. Eventually, she relented, agreeing to his half-baked plan.

So, they'd started the process almost immediately, getting papers together, first looking for a three bedroom flat that Géraldine would live in with her brother, with both their names on the lease, though she would pay for herself, until they were married, where he would move out of his and Harry's flat and into her third bedroom, to seal the illusion.

They officially claimed their engagement through the ministry in December, requesting a copy of documents that would pass muggle inspection, which had taken another week to complete, announcing their upcoming nuptials to their friends and family at the new years eve celebration hosted by Fleamont and Euphemia Potter. Tomorrow, they would officially bring all documentation to Marie-Claire, which would hopefully allow them to come back with Jean-Pierre.

Truthfully, Ron was looking forward to it, and was a bit proud that it was his idea, that he'd been able to help his friend with something so important. It had been during all their scheming to pull all of this off, that he'd found he'd begun to genuinely care for Géraldine, like, a lot.

He found himself looking for her in a room, and a part of him felt guilty for it, for Hermione, who was a shadow of guilt in his heart, for the way he'd treated her, and because he was falling in love with their mutual friend. He had hoped she could eventually support them truly, because he had hope that maybe one day, it could be a real marriage, rather than an elaborate plan to adopt her brother.

When they'd announced their engagement, he knew Hermione was hurting, though she'd put on a brave face and congratulated them, she had left the new years celebration early, and he'd felt even more wretched about how everything had gone down between them, but he felt he was doing something good here. So after discussing it with Géraldine, they'd decided that once she had Jean-Pierre, they would tell Hermione everything, and he hope she didn't judge them too harshly, and more-so, he hoped that, eventually, they could all be happy with the paths that life had chosen for them.

Tomorrow would be the day that could make or break everything, as Marie-Claire could either agree or disagree to give them Jean-Pierre, he also felt that this was his chance to make it up to Géraldine for going after Hermione, for breaking up with her afterwards, that maybe he could actually win her back. Though, if she decided afterwards not to continue they're marriage, he vowed, he would let it go, and let her go.

Grabbing a handful of floo powder, he called for the Ministry of Magic and stepped through, ready to take on the day, and every other day, thereafter.

February 14th, 1945 – Gold Realm Restaurant

Hermione took the seat that Kai offered her, allowing him to push in her chair, before placing her napkin in her lap while he took his own seat. It was Valentine's Day, which she was surprised a lot of the younger generation of witches and wizards celebrated, despite it being a non-magical holiday.

It just went to show how the UK magical world was all too happy to appropriate non-magical inventions and holidays when it suited them, while still disdaining the creators. It was an hypocrisy that Hermione had noticed while at Hogwarts, and that to this day, still observed with disbelief and indignation.

Kai smiled at her and she felt her stomach flutter, pleased that she'd taken her mother's advice to give the relationship an honest go. She had generally been pretending, for the last month and a half, that what had happened on new years with Tom, had not actually happened, regardless of the other boy's smug looks.

Her feelings for Tom were mixed, on one hand, he had awful morals and values, and he was so insufferable that it made her want to avoid him, and on the other, he'd become a bit of a staple in her life. When he entered a room, she looked to him, and she didn't know how to deal with these feelings, which brought her once more to avoiding him, which is what she did, with absolute finesse.

Another person she had a lot of confusing emotions towards, was Jaismine, she didn't get to spend a lot of time with her, as the other girl was significantly busier than she, but every time she did get to see her, her mother's words reverberated through her brain. She felt she was still not at the point in her own self-discovery and acceptance, to accept that she may not be completely heterosexual, so she relegated whatever feelings she had for the other girl and stubbornly stuck them into the friend category, and left them there.

She had, at least, managed to clear things with Ron and Géraldine, finding out that they were engaged to be married for the purpose of adopting her friend's younger brother, who'd she met, as they did actually succeed in convincing Géraldine's neighbour. He was a sweet, young boy, who looked so much like his elder sister that it broke Hermione's heart, she'd even helped look after him on some days, if she was able.

As January passed and February started, she begun to let go of her hurt and anger, and had come to the conclusion that, it had hurt because it had still been a bit fresh. She still loved both her friends, so she decided she'd rather still have them in her life, than cut them out for her own pride, and if they truly fell in love sometime in the future, she would support them then too.

Shaking her head, ridding her thoughts of everyone but the man sitting across from her, tonight she had every intention of having sex with him for the second time.

She had thought about what her mother had said, and for most of January, she hee-hawed on it, eventually conceding to look at it from a informational perspective. The lack of information truly never helped anyone, and if she viewed sex as a bit of knowledge she'd yet to be privy too, it made the decision to engage in it easier to digest.

Her first time had been with Kai almost two weeks ago, and suffice to say, it had been a disaster, she'd been so nervous and a bit scared, despite Kai's gentle assurances and “foreplay” to prepare her. It had hurt, a lot, and she'd bled, also a lot, and for a couple of days afterwards, despite her monthlies only having been a week prior.

She had figured that because it had been her first time, she'd been unable to relax her body enough, and that had exacerbated the 'usual' amount of pain that she'd heard was expected. She'd felt a bit embarrassed about it when she talked to Kai about it the next day, in private, but he'd reassured her that there was no wrong way to have intercourse for the first time, that it affected everybody differently due to their own experiences.

He explained, that it was easier to look at it as a skill, and any skill took a couple of tries and practices before one became confident in said skill, he then nervously relegated his own first time while he'd been attending Hogwarts. He told her it had been one of the biggest embarrassments of his school life, and hearing that _had_ made her feel a tiny bit better about herself, once again reiterating mentally that it was information that she simply did not know yet.

Masturbation, on the other hand, admittedly she'd become quite good at. She'd managed to recreate the high from new years many times, and it had honestly helped her feel more comfortable about her body, in general. As for Kai, she'd learned before they'd attempted actual intercourse, that he was quite talented with his hands, and that despite his friendly and cheery demeanor, he would happily leave her a trembling mess by just using them only.

They took their order with the waiter, ordering a red wine to start, she decided to go with the salmon, and he went with a steak. They started by speaking of small things about the office, like how Fleamont had filled Euphemia's entire office with flowers, so much so, that she couldn't even enter it this morning, and how Hetal announced excitedly earlier today that she and her husband Arjun were finally expecting, as they'd been trying since they’d gotten married.

She thought back to when she'd first met Kai, she'd originally considered him incredibly intimidating, until she found out more about him. How he purposely became a barrister to help people, how he had four fully grown crups at home, and how he was a big softie who'd panic if he even so much as accidentally stepped on one of their paws.

The more she learned about him, the more she became attracted to him. She'd learned that he was a half-blood, whose mother was an Iranian-British muggleborn, that he, himself, was fluent in Farsi, which he'd attempted to teach Hermione a bit of it, and though he teased her, she thought she was finally catching on. She'd also learned that he was an absolute mamma's boy, who talked about her as if she'd hung the stars, and it charmed her.

“What are you thinking about, Mia?” she was sure her face darkened, but what she wasn't sure of was whether it was because she'd been caught in her thoughts or for the nickname, she attempted to hide her face in her wine glass, but he'd raised an eyebrow at her, causing a whole different type of feeling to rush to her lower belly.

“You,” she replied lowly, and if it was possible for his already dark eyes to become darker, they would have, and he took a sip from his own wine to distract himself.

“We haven't even eaten yet.” it sounded like he was trying to reason more with himself than her, she titled her head at him after sneaking a glance around at the other patrons, before whispering.

“I mean, I wouldn't mind taking our food to go and eating it after,” she trailed off, to better insinuate her intentions. Without missing a beat, he signaled their waiter, asking for their ordered food to go, as they'd just been made aware of an emergency.

'Some emergency,' Hermione mentally snorted, ignoring the waiter's sardonic un-fooled expression, they waited an extra five minutes before their food was brought to them in to go cardboard containers, before practically racing out of there.

They were back at Kai's flat in under another ten minutes, and it took another five to detach themselves from the four excited crups, upon their arrival before finally making their way to the bedroom.

Kai kissed her softly, reaching up to her shoulders to grip at her robes, but paused for a moment and broke their kiss, she looked at him questioningly, and he brushed a thumb across her bottom lip.

“Are you sure?” he asked, “You can ask to stop at anytime if you're uncomfortable,” he affirmed, a serious expression displayed on his face, and smiling she stood on her toes to peck his lips before nodding, grateful that her partner was respectful of her needs and comfort.

On her approval, he helped pull her robes over her head, leaving her in just her undergarments, before picking her up, encouraging her to wrap her legs around his hips, he carried her to the bed and dropped her down onto it, earning a shock of laughter from her. She went to kneel and reach for the buttons of his own robes before helping pull them over his head, kissing his throat and collar when they were gone. One of his large warm hands was pressed flat against her lower back, while the other reached up to tug at her brassiere.

She huffed and broke away from him, reaching around her back to undo the clasps, before sliding her arms through the straps and tossing the unneeded article across the room. His mouth was on one of her breasts in an instant, his hand that had been splayed on her lower back, had started tugging at her undergarments. She reached to undo her garter belt, but his hands stopped her.

“No, this stays.” his voice was ragged and low enough to be perceived as a growl, “just these.” he tugged at her knickers.

He undid the clasps on her stockings momentarily while he slid her underwear off, before redoing the clasps once more, and stepping back to look at her. She didn't even have the urge to cover up as she usually would, as she knelt there on the bed in nothing but her garter and stockings, she felt both confident and desirable.

She looked down at his straining erection through the fabric of his briefs, they were tightly fitted, which complimented his muscular legs, and also displayed every inch of the length and thickness of his cock.

Hermione was nervous for a moment, again, as he was rather large, though he was not necessarily long, more thick than anything else. They'd only managed to get half of him in the first time, and that had already been incredibly painful. As if noticing her hesitance, he held up a finger to signal her to wait, before he went over to the drawer beside his bed and pulled out a small vial of a clear gel like substance. She tilted her head in confusion, and as if to answer her unspoken question, he explained what it was.

“It's lubrication serum, I should have thought of it the first time, and I apologize that I didn't, but this should help ease your pain a bit, and even help you enjoy penetration.” handing it to her when she stretched out her hand, she regarded it for a moment, tilting it to scrutinize the consistency before nodding and handing it back to him, where he placed it back in the drawer safely. When he turned back to her, he placed a hand on her hip, but paused.

“Lie down on you back, and open your legs, there's something I've been wanting to try.” and she followed his directions, opening her legs, and staring up at the canopy of his bed, jolting when she felt something wet slide along her centre. She craned her neck to see that he was knelt between her legs and she surmised that it must have been his tongue, unsure, she laid back down and closed her eyes, letting herself relax against this new form of pleasure he was giving her.

At first, she hadn't been certain what she should be feeling, until she felt that familiar pressure begin to build. He was sucking on that sensitive nub of hers, and as soon as he stuck a finger in her, curling it slightly to massage at her wall, Hermione saw stars. Her arms reached down to grasp at his hair, as he kept applying pressure with his tongue and mouth, continuing to massage that spot inside her that had her bucking her hips and whining, while he held her down by gripping her thighs.

Eventually, after he'd purposely brought her to her peak, only to ease away, and do it a few more times, did he let her fall over the edge. She was seeing spots as she panted, and she vaguely noticed that he'd removed his briefs, and had reached back into the drawer to grab the lubrication vial.

She watched in fascination as he poured a small sickle sized amount into his hand, and began rubbing his length, which was standing erect with thick veins and a weeping tip that resembled a mushroom. She thought that they had their own primal lure, as just watching him rub the gel over his shaft and head had her wriggling her hips in anticipation.

He lined himself up, made eye contact with her, and she keened at the pressure of his head pushing against her, before nodding, answering his unasked question. With a nod and a small countdown, he slid himself in slowly and she held her breath waiting for the pain, only it never really came. He was fully in and she blinked at how much easier it had been this time, she felt full, and perhaps a tad uncomfortable, but not in pain.

He gave her a questioning glance, asking if she was alright before she nodded again, causing him to pull out and slam back into her again, and soon he began a steady pace, as her back arched against the bed. She attempted to spread her legs further, keening every time his pelvis hit her clit, feeling like a fire was building, she gripped at the bed sheets to steady herself. When he stopped and pulled out, she reared her head to look at him confusedly, .

“Let me lie down and you settle yourself on top, I think you may enjoy it even more than this,” he said as he propped the pillows up and laid against them on the bed, and obediently, Hermione climbed on top and carefully helped slide him back inside her, gasping at a whole new and different set of sensations she felt. It felt like the tip of him was prodding at something painful, but, not a bad pain, but a very good one.

She began to grind her hips, and clit against his pelvis, snapping her eyes shut in ecstasy, while Kai had his hands folded behind his head, watching her reverently as she tried to chase her high, bracing her hands on his chest.

“That's it, good girl,” he crooned, and she felt the low vibrations of his voice through her core, causing her to groan at the feeling. Noticing how his voice was affecting her, he kept talking, bringing his hands from behind his head to caress to top of her thighs as they gripped on either side of his hips.

“So beautiful, taking all of me like this, you're so perfect.” before jerking his head back into the pillows at his own rising climax as she picked up her pace, mewling and panting while rode him.

A couple of more grinds and jerks of her hips and Hermione cried out as she finally reached two separate peaks, one clitoral and the other internal, and it was so strong that she didn't know what to do with herself, the sensations so powerful that she couldn't think straight. Kai instantly sat up and gripped her and began setting a pace for her to ride out her peak while he built his own, gripping and pulling apart her ass, lifting her and slamming back down at a brutal pace.

She felt another peak begin to build and wrapped her arms around his shoulders to brace herself, burying her head in his shoulder as another climax slammed through her, she cried out again and bit his shoulder before kissing his neck while he continued to slam up into her, more and more aggressively. He buried himself once more and stilled, with grunt and a gasp, he held her in place while he came inside her, his own head buried against the crook of his neck.

When he finished, he lifted her hips to carefully remove himself, before replacing her down on his lap, they looked at each other and grinned.

“I hope that was better than last time,” he gruffed, his voice a bit raspy, and she bit her lip and nodded, feeling extremely satisfied.

“That was...I was not expecting it to feel so...good,” she paused and stumbled, looking for the right words, and he chuckled before reaching up and wiping a sweaty curl from her forehead, before reaching for his wand on the other side of the bed, performing the contraceptive charm on her. She watched as her womb glowed a bright orange, before fading and grinned a thanks at him.  
  
For the rest of the night, they continued a repeat of their activities, eating their stasis'd food in bed before falling asleep here and there, curled around each other, and she had to admit, she was quite content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya'know, i wasn't always going to write a ron perspective, but i felt that his story was a hard one that just writing from another's perspective doesn't do him justice, because with any hermione centric story, he's uniquely become the most hated character in hp fanfic verse, which just isn't a vibe for me, cause i resonate with his character so much (i too (or i like to think) have a heart of gold, with insecurities the size of mariana's trench) and i really didn't want to have to kill him, so i did some brainstorming to expand more on him and geraldine and i think i like where it led me.
> 
> anyhoo, when anybody else writes smut, do they also keep an entirely straight face? as if you're writing a scientific thesis? no? just me? lmao  
> anyway.
> 
> shit is gonna hit the fan, so that's a neat little warning to you readers. next chapter is gonna be a long one, brace yourself, hope you all enjoyed this, and i hope you all are staying safe and healthy.


	22. Chapter 21 - Thunderous Applause

Chapter 21 – April 25th, 1945 – Riddle Manor

Tom read the muggle newspaper in his rooms, both greatly intrigued and disturbed by what was reported. It seemed that though the winter outside had thawed to spring, the war raged outside still, and where dead trees were coming alive again, there would be no resurrection for the hundreds of thousands of muggles of the Jewish faith. This specific copy of The Yorkshire Post reported the liberation of German Death Camps, it was estimated that millions had been killed in total between all the different camps, though officially, there was no fixed number yet.

A million seemed like such an incomprehensible number to Tom, he didn't even think there were a million magic users in all of Western Europe, never mind of a single set belief. He shook his head in disbelief and continued reading the other articles, and again, the scale of the muggle world war disturbed him.

On one page, an article covered the American victory over Japan during the battle of Iwo Jima in late March, another text block detailed a battle in the Philippines, Argentina just declared war on Germany, and to his knowledge, the British were victors of Operation Roast in North-Eastern Italy.

Tom was certain he could use these numbers and statistics somehow to his benefit, perhaps as a backup scare tactic once he had the Slytherin seat, he thought of the magical war then. Grindelwald's soldiers and bases had been booted from France in September, and now the British Magical Army, allied with Canada, the U.S, and France were working on liberating south of Spain, Italy, and Morocco from remaining forces, continuing to move further east into continental Europe.

In the Wizengamot, Progressive party leader Dumbledore was being pressured from all sides to battle Grindelwald now, while he was obviously weakened, though the light wizard has yet to make any overt movements.

Tom's opinion of Dumbledore was already extremely low, that he was a wizard who saw a neglected child who'd admitted to acting out, but instead of offering assistance or some sort of support system, he had further shunned him and treated him with borderline hostility. For years he'd regretted telling the professor of his inclinations and parseltongue ability, thinking he'd made a misstep, but the older he grew, the more he realized how wrong he'd been treated, after all, he'd simply been a child then.

Did he deliberately hurt, cheat and take lives now? Yes, he did, and if he were to be caught, he understood that he'd probably deserve any punishment that would be relegated upon him (though that was an exceptional if), but as a child of negligible upbringing? Tom felt it reeked of projection of whatever insecurities Dumbledore held close to his chest. As it stood, he was being pressured by all to duel Grindelwald, but the flamboyant professor, instead, was doing everything in his power to block Tom's ascension to Slytherin's seat, by trying to sway the neutral vote that he'd already won over.

Truthfully, in this case, he did not mind the old mage's attempt at subterfuge, because as clearly as he could see Dumbledore's negligence in dealing with Grindelwald, it meant that so could everyone else, and Tom would eventually use that distrust to strike back at Dumbledore twice as hard.

Of the neutral votes he'd lost was Laird McLaggen (Hermione's stunt had cost him from ever having his support) which admittedly, didn't bother him much, as he'd never counted on having it in the first place. Caspar Crouch, who was so left of Neutral that he was practically Progressive. Kenrich Smith, who was apparently holding a personal grudge of losing his bid for the Hufflepuff seat back in 1932.

Finally, teetering on the edge of whether to support or not was Mafalda Hopkirk, who unlike Crouch, was so far right of Neutral, that she was essentially Traditional, and Tamarius Gamp, a true neutral who only swayed the vote depending on his personal thoughts and beliefs on matters at hand (it was said the Gamp line was a direct Ravenclaw line, that simply didn't care to make a claim for their founder seat) so perhaps he could entirely count on him.

Lastly, there was one wizard Tom was almost sure of in their vote but could lose if he acted on his impulsivity, and that was Hector Fawley.

His blood had hit an absolute boiling point when Antonin, who with a devious gleam in his eye, informed him of his witness of Hermione and Kai Fawley's courtship. He's struck quickly and had duelled Antonin until the other boy was a panting, bleeding mess on the floor, for daring to derive enjoyment from the news that he'd known would have enraged him.

Suffice to say, Antonin's chaotic jubilance had since dimmed around him into proper respect. There were times where Tom wished he could simply torture his way to respect but knew that if he'd ever gone that route, that he would no longer have knights or supporters. So, he became stronger, quicker, and more lethal in his duelling practices, his apprenticeship within the Department of Mysteries affording him access to notes and studies of previous Unspeakables, and so he used that knowledge to challenge any of his knights, who for a moment, thought themselves his superior.

His apprenticeship was coming up on a year, and though he knew he'd gained a lot of knowledge thus far, he knew even better that all that information would be obliviated from his mind if he ever tried to leave the Unspeakables.

On the subject of Kai Fawley, Tom had done some research, he was apparently the youngest Fawley son out of five children, making him the fourth son and that he was from a second marriage to a muggleborn, making him a halfblood. He knew Hector Fawley was the Minister previous to the current Spencer-Moon, and was a staunch neutral-traditionalist, but Tom doubted he'd appreciate very much to vote for a Slytherin seat contender after they'd found parts of his son scattered throughout Diagon Alley.

He could see Hermione was smitten, hiding smiles when he was mentioned, causing acid to fill Tom's lungs and make his hand twitch for his wand. He could not act now, could not rip that smile off her face in the form of ripping Kai Fawley's spine out of his back, not when he was so close to his goal.

Oh, he knew the other man was fucking her, and he promised himself that when the time came, retribution would be immense, to both of them, and Hermione would learn her place. He felt his nostrils flare in fury and forced himself to ease the pressure on his jaw as he folded the newspaper and set it on the side table beside him, willing himself to calm down.

§ _Your scent has changed again, what bothers you_ §

Kaa hissed from her place on the carpet in front of the fire. She'd grown massively in the time that he had her, reaching almost eight feet now, her scales had taken on a more opal sheen, rather than the mother of pearl she'd had as a hatchling, and the jewel on her head looked to resemble a moonstone now, her propensity for growth escalated due to her status as a magical breed. She'd also, undoubtedly, had become his prime confident, though that was merely because nobody would ever be able to understand the secrets they'd wrench out of her if they tried.

§ _Something that is mine if being taken by someone else_ §

He hissed back softly, feeling rage coil in the pit of his stomach again, the idea of another man touching her, coupled with the fact that his hands were tied, made him want to kill something.

§ _Are you not the superior choice of mate?_ §

He snorted, Kaa absolutely would cut to the centre of the issue at hand, she knew based on his scent alone, his regard for Hermione, and she never failed to call him on it.

§ _I am, but there are obstacles I cannot overcome at this time, lest I risk losing everything_ §

She was silent after that, and he folded his hands over his stomach, bringing his ankle to rest over one knee, and stared into the fire as he considered all of his different ploys and plans he had going simultaneously. It seemed, he too, would be subject to this waiting game that he'd been delighted that crippled Helen so. Thinking of his cousin, he'd been watching her actions closely, and he was almost certain his ploy with Seaborn had worked, as she was away from the manor often, and to his knowledge, hadn't received any more correspondence from the Innocenti woman.

He'd done some research and had found that Helen's mother had been an Innocenti, so he decided to tuck that information away until he could use it. Currently, the war had tied Helen's hands from acting on any plans she'd had internationally, and hopefully, Seaborn was tying her hands here domestically (he snorted at the ironic implication of that thought).

As for Hermione, she would get hers from him, of that he was certain. She did not get to make a fool of him and walk unscathed. He was weaving a web, and she was the butterfly with no idea of what she was flying into, while he, the spider, watched, waited, and weaved patiently.

Seaborn Lodge - May 18th, 1945

Helen's eyes fluttered open, and she blinked them until she began to recognize her surroundings, as well as the feeling of the soft bed sheets on her naked skin, and the weight of the arm over her waist. She frowned, and glanced towards the clock on the wall, noting the time as seven in the morning, and sighed a small exhale of relief, as her driver would be outside at eight, glad she'd made the arrangements beforehand.

She didn't usually spend the night, but last night Theodore had insisted and had seemed annoyed that she had wanted to leave at all. She had been tired, but unfortunately, sleep hadn't been on the man's mind at all. She winced as she slid her sore legs to the edge of the bed, removing his arm carefully, before getting up and making her way to the loo.

When she first made the decision to sleep with Theodore Seaborn, it had been with the understanding that it was casual sex and nothing more, which she'd originally agreed to, however, as the months passed and their dallying continued, she was starting to notice a disturbing pattern to his behaviour.

Chiefly being that he was rather possessive of her, and became antagonistic if she did not return his sentiments, and should she bring it to his attention, rightfully criticizing him and threatening to end their 'agreement', he would apologize but would circle back in a few weeks and do it again. He'd even gone as far as purchasing this manse on the Scarborough shoreline, only an hour from Little Hangleton in Malton proper.

Yesterday, he'd come to Riddle Manor, which in itself broke one of her rules of engagement, for him to show up where her daughter could see him, to pick her up for what he'd suggested as their own 'celebration' to the end of the war.

Not that the war was completely over, as the Japanese and Americans were still fighting, but Hitler committed suicide at the end of April, and the Germans had officially surrendered a week ago. Of course, his idea of celebration had been copious amounts of alcohol and sex, and not that Helen minded, but it begged a few questions as to why he wanted to celebrate with her, as they were no more than 'shagging acquaintances' (which is what she'd taken to calling them in her head).

She was beginning to think he was becoming far too invested in the idea that this may evolve into an actual relationship, and she was also beginning to think it prudent to cut him loose sooner rather than later.

She finished her business, washing her hands and face, as well as swiping a washcloth from the clean linen basket on the shelf to wash herself of the evidence of their nightly activities, frowning at how tender and swollen she still was. Tossing the washcloth into the hamper beside the door once she finished, she walked out of the washroom to find the man in question propped up on his elbow, watching every move she made, cock at half-mast.

Ignoring him, she instead went to the chair that held her effects and began dressing, slipping on her brassier, garter, and knickers, fastening to clasps to her stockings once she pulled them up to her thighs, before finally slipping her dress over her head. She fastened to button at the back of her neck and secured the belt around her waist, uncaring that he was still watching.

“And where do you think you're going?” he drawled, getting up from the bed and making his way towards hers, and she mentally scoffed at his attempt to appear predatory, for he would not know predatory if it bit him in his arsecheek.

“Home, of course,” she replied curtly, grabbing her purse, double-checking its contents and straightening her hair briefly in the mirror of the vanity.

“It will take some time for my driver to be ready, what's the rush? I'm sure we can find something more enjoyable to do while we wait,” he cooed in her ear, coming up from behind and running a hand over her, now clothed, arm. His condescending attitude sending a flash of rage up her spine, and she breathed deeply to calm it.

“No need, I have my own driver who I've instructed to be outside by eight,” she responded, stepping away from him and making her way to the door. His hand wrapped tightly around her arm and he jerked her back towards him, but before he could wrap his arm around her, she'd regained her balance, rearing back far enough to back-handed him across the face. He let her go in shock, cupping his cheek while he stared at her incredulously.

“Regardless of our relations, Mr. Seaborn, that does not give you the right to manhandle me,” she spat furiously, before turning once more and walking out of the room, grateful to see her driver as she exited the manse and quickly entered through the opened door of the car. Only once she was seated, and her driver began to turn out of the roundabout, did she look back to the entrance of the manse to find Theodore standing there watching her, with hastily thrown on trousers and button-down.

'Yes, it seems this arrangement is done,' she thought disdainfully. The sex had been good, certainly, but not worth dealing with the man's emotional instability, she had far too much self-respect to continue that now.

She thought of another boy, no, man, who radiated that same emotional instability but had enough charming countenance to hide it well. Tom, who she felt had been quiet in the last couple of months, as he hadn't even reacted to Hermione's new relationship, was certainly keeping her on her toes. She knew he must be planning something, but she didn't know what, and furthermore, how she should act or brace for whatever it was.

As for Kai, her daughter's new beau, she was apathetic towards, she'd met the man, and there was no mistaking that's what he was, as he was a good four years older than her girl, though that was the part of the relationship she was most critical of, Hermione seemed happy, so she kept her opinion to herself. She did decide to keep a close eye, however, and he seemed an exuberant fellow, constantly looking towards Hermione's comfort, which reminded her greatly Antoine.

She supposed she might be a bit hypocritical, as when she'd met Antoine in 1920, she'd been twenty-one, while he had been twenty-eight. She and her father's entourage had been in Sainte-Luce, as her father had been set to meet the then owner of Trois Rivieres distillery to sell arms. They had travelled from Fort-de-France originally, which is where, she theorized, they'd picked up the virus unknowingly, as it's had been a much bigger population.

Her father, their guide, who'd been leading them around the island, and her own lady's maid had succumbed to the flu, while only she had recovered. She had then been stranded on her own on that island, amidst a global pandemic, in what was essentially a fishing village.

She'd taken all the francs on her father's person, and had sold some jewelry to buy a small house within that village to hold herself over, while the pandemic rode itself out, helping various households with chores and helping care for the sick in exchange for food and supplies. Then Dr. Antoine Granger had come from Fort-de-France to help treat the sick, where she, of course, had volunteered to help, and the rest had become history.

She watched the scenery pass from her place inside the car, thinking of everything that had happened in the last two years, since coming back to Britain. She'd been prepared to remarry, prepared to attempt at another pregnancy at the age of forty-four, just to keep her daughter safe, while ensuring that she'd be able to finish her education, however, she would have never been able to prepare herself for the existence of one Tom Marvolo Riddle.

She'd had hoped, at first, that Tom Riddle Sr. And his parents wouldn't have shown open hostility to Hermione, though she'd been well aware of their blatant racism, and it broke her heart that her girl had so many enemies just for existing, but Tom Riddle Jr was a whole other threat that she would have never thought to account for. Though, as he hadn't made any overtures in months, she hoped that he'd have moved on from the idea of having any romantic involvement with her daughter, however, that did not stop her from planning contingencies as a precaution.

She followed the Daily Prophet on news of the Grindelwald war and was pleased to see that he was following the Nazis in terms of losses. Booted out of France, not to mention his straggling holds on Spain and Italy being targeted by Allied Magical Forces, it gave Helen hope for the future, as if the wars ended, that she would finally be able to think clearly.

Her paranoia was convinced that her correspondence with her maternal cousin, Laura, was compromised, simply due to the fact that she'd received a telegram from her that she hadn't remembered being given, which, assuming she'd been in Tom's company when it happened, was suspicious. So, she had sent her reply after proceeding to rent a postal box at the post office in York, directing Laura to send any future replies there.

She had explained to her in her response sent in October, that Italy, for her daughter, was likely compromised in terms of potential domestic threats. Laura had responded that she would write other members of their family, even those who had emigrated away from Italy long before the war. That response had been in December, and with it being May, she'd yet to see a reply, making the trip once a week, so as to not appear suspicious.

Making a decision as the entered Malton proper, she directed her driver to continue driving to York, estimating that it would be around ten in the morning by the time they got there, and that new letters would surely be in by then, with the war now over (mostly) it was worth seeing if there was finally a response.

It was indeed another hour before they reached the post office, and she gave her driver, Henry, extra funds to have to tank of the car filled, as well as orders to get himself something to eat, and to be back in two hours, giving her plenty of time to complete her business.

Entering the office, she dug into her purse to retrieve her box key as she headed to where they were stationed on the far wall. Approaching hers, she took a deep breath, before sliding the key in and turning, opening the small door upon the click of the lock, she released a shuddering breath upon finding a single letter laying there. She pulled it out and curiously taking in the multitude of stamps that covered the envelope, she read the return address, her heart pounding in her ears, eyes widening at what she saw:

_Sr. M. INNOCENTI_

_Rochia, 1542_

_(R1005JHG) Buenos Aires_

_Argentina_

She tapped her nail against the thick card stock encasing, and making a decision, she slipped it in her purse, before sliding her key out of the lock and closing the box.

She exited the office and made her way to the tea shop across the street, ordering an earl gray, sweetened with milk and a scone with jam, paying the outrageous price for it before looking for a seat. Rationing was still in effect despite the war ending Europe, but restaurants had generally been offered more than the average household. The reopening of many shops, not only in just York, with the weather changing from spring to early summer, filled Helen with a glimmer of optimism, that perhaps everything wouldn't actually go to utter shite.

Once she sat down at a checkered-cloth covered table, away from the windows (cheers to that familiar paranoia) she didn't pull the letter from the purse until the server brought her tea, deciding instead to split her scone in half and spread the jam, sliding a few shillings to the server when she did arrive with her tea.

When she was finally alone, she pulled the letter into her hands carefully, before opening it and scanning it quickly, she was relieved to read that it was still in Italian, rather than Spanish. Though she was confident that she would have been able to gather the gist of it if it were, with her knowledge in the other two romance languages, she was still not confident enough to read an entire letter in the language.

Her mother had taught her her native language behind her father's back, as her father, despite his obsession with Helen's mother, had disdained any people near the Mediterranean, which included Italians. To this day, it was a skill she cherished, and she regretted never teaching Hermione, or even telling her about that side of her family. She looked down at the unfamiliar script and began reading:

_  
Cara Helena,_

_  
Mi ho spezzato il cuore, che non ti ho mai incontrato correttamente. Ho sentito mia nipote, Laura, che ti preoccupera la tua figlia in Gran Bretagna. Voglio essere chiaro, che tu e la tua figlia sono i benvenuti qui con me e la mia famiglia._

_La tua madre era la mia sorellina, che non avevo potuto aiutare, ed_ _é un qualcosa che mi pento ogni giorno_

_Saluti_

_Il tuo zio,_ _Mateo Innocenti_

She took a sip of her tea and broke off a piece of her scone, and considered the letter. She'd kept in touch with her zia Giustina, which had been her mother's sister, for years, and furthermore, her cousin Laura, who was Giustina's daughter, and who was only a few years her senior. She had known her mother had an older brother who had been fifteen years older than her, but she'd never been in contact with him before and hadn't even known that he emigrated to South America.

This was good, because if Tom was truly playing her the fool than this was a valid strategy that she could consider. What concerned her was that he could potentially pluck this information from her head, and that is where she had to be careful. She chewed thoughtfully on her scone, before taking another sip of her tea. Perhaps it was time to bring Hermione in on her plans, she would need to speak to her daughter.

She finished her tea and scone, before heading back to the postal office to draft her response, telling her uncle of her fear for her daughter's welfare, detailing that she was grateful for the offer and that she would be in touch. She copied the address from his own letter, before paying the necessary pounds on postage to have it sent off.

It was one in the afternoon that she finally found herself at home, and she headed to her rooms to bathe and dress properly before making her way to her daughter's room, letter in her pocket. It was Sunday, and usually, Hermione went to mass after lunch, so she should be home soon. Sure enough, she'd only had to wait fifteen minutes before her daughter walked into the room, while Helen had been perusing once more through the seventh year defence book, specifically the chapter on mind magics, an idea taking hold in her mind.

“Maman? What's going on?” her girl asked, closing the door and as if by habit, silenced the room. Helen smiled sadly at her daughter, despairing that such practices had become the norm.

“Do you know occlumency?” she asked, getting straight to the point, and Hermione gaped at her confusedly before warily nodding.

“Yes, we practiced a beginner's level of it in school, and furthermore in the defence group we started,” she explained, taking a seat on the love-seat as Helen nodded.

  
“Good, I want you to obliviate me after I tell you this information.”

Bayit Cham – June 15th, 1945  
  


They all sat around Géraldine's kitchen table, Hermione sipped her tea, frowning when she found that it was still too hot and placed it back down. To her right was Jaismine, to her left Harry, across from her were Géraldine and Ron, and beside their host was Jean-Pierre with a cup of pumpkin juice, crayons and some paper, so that he could feel included.

The air around them was charged with anxiety and anticipation, Harry being the one who mostly radiated it, firstly due to Tom's ascension to the Slytherin seat in six days, and secondly, due to Ginny's graduation in ten days.

The graduation ceremony for Hogwarts seventh year would be on Sunday the twenty-fourth, and Hermione had insisted that she would be there to support both her and Luna, after all, it would be a while before she saw either of them again. Ginny was tagged to play quidditch professionally with the Holyhead Harpies, after having been invited to the tryouts during spring hols, and Luna was set to expedition with her father in Peru for two months when she finished school, due to Xenophilius Lovegood managing to wrangle one of his editors to man The Quibbler in his absence.

Today, though, the topic of discussion was Tom's almost certain win of the Slytherin Seat, which fell on the summer solstice, despite the Progressive party rallying to gain supporters against the vote.

“I'm confused, everyone is waiting and hoping Professor Dumbledore will act against Grindelwald, but he's spending his time instead to gather opposition against Tom?” she reiterated, feeling annoyed, but mostly due to her own personal experience and sacrifices pertaining to the war.

“It's not that simple, it's that, even though Dumbledore is our most powerful mage and option against Grindelwald, he is also the elected leader of the Progressive Party, or “light faction” of the Wizengamot, so it's his responsibility to prevent the Traditional Party, self-titled “dark faction” from gaining too much power by swaying the Swing Party, or “neutral faction”,” Harry explained, while moving his hands across the table to assist in emphasizing his point, and Hermione felt her eye twitch, because she already knew all of that, and felt annoyed that she seemed to be the only one who cared for all the people who were actually dying in this war, but refrained from snapping. To her, the priorities of the British magical government were an absolute travesty, but what else was new?

“Riddle is smart though, using the war both to distract and boast his image for support, it's how he's gotten such a positive reception from the Swing/neutrals. He's using Dumbledore's mobilizing against him to fan the flames of discontent with the Progressive Party, which furthermore perpetuates support for his pro-traditional platform, by using that same exhaustion for the wars,” Ron piped in, scratching the bit of facial hair growing on his chin, and Hermione nodded, because he was correct, and either Dumbledore didn't see the ploy, or worse yet, saw it and decided the delay of his involvement in the war was worth the risk.

“And arguably, a lot of the Wizengamot is in favour of restraining muggle influence, regardless of what party they represent, so the rhetoric Riddle is using is extremely effective, no one will admit to it because it's political suicide, but it's definitely there because he's even got a few 'yes' votes from the Progressive Party,” Jaismine spoke beside her, tapping her fingers softly against the table as Hermione watched her hand, considering her words.

'Is anti-muggle sentiment so strong because of the wars? Or was it always there?' she thought curiously, trying to picture Euphemia, Fleamont, or even Kai supporting discrimination behind closed doors, but couldn't come up with an answer because it seemed far too off-brand to their normal personalities. If Tom won, it begged the question of how many people in this world she was in truly disdained her or people like her mother? The thought made her feel anxious.

She shot a glance at Géraldine across the table, the other girl had been in a sort of quiet melancholy for months, as after the release of the German Death Camps, she still had no word on her parents or older brother. Hermione felt for her, raising her younger brother, having to live with the knowledge that her family was possibly dead, as well as the antagonistic environment here in Britain for being nouveau-sang? Though she knew the hardships of racism, she couldn't imagine that pain, thanking God daily that she had her mother.

Tom also confused her, she knew his politics, or at least, she thought she did, but he was always still polite and considerate at home to her mother and even the manor staff, but how much of that was fake? His discussions of the war and company with her mother were always intellectual in verbiage, but did he still disdain her because of her lack of magic?

They didn't really talk about their personal lives, and she didn't even know if he knew that she was courting Kai, though perhaps he did, as he'd stopped pushing his innuendos on her, which was a relief. They generally spoke of politics, or academic topics, while she raged at unjust laws, he would drive her up a wall by playing devil's advocate.

He was a master at logical fallacies, and she was sure he did it on purpose, to get a rise out of her, because she also knew he was too clever to actually believe half the nonsense the Traditional Party spewed, but then, Jaismine's word made her think, how much of that was him playing her the fool? She thought back to her mother and her plan, wondering if perhaps it truly had been necessary, thinking briefly of the great-uncle she had in Argentina that her mother now had no knowledge about, wondering and hesitant at the idea of ever having to take such action.

The idea, however, that Tom still engaged her but still thought her existence worthless? It turned her stomach to think about, and that was to say nothing of his personal interest in her person. She'd thought, at least, to her knowledge, that he was siding with the Traditional Party because they were his sure-fire way to power, the power that was the Slytherin seat, which he felt entitled to as the sole surviving descendant (non-incarcerated) of the name in question.

“And there is no one who can claim any other founder seat to even the playing field?” she asked, and Harry huffed out a chuckle, but Jaismine cut him off before he could answer.

“There are, the Gamp line is said to descend from Ravenclaw, though Tamarius Gamp, the current holder of the Gamp seat has stated that he has no care for it,” she explained, and Harry piped in.

“The Longbottom family is the only surviving line of Gryffindor, but then that would require Neville to make the claim,” he paused, and Hermione nodded, agreeing with the unlikelihood of such a thing coming to pass, thinking of the gentle boy she knew briefly in Hogwarts.

“And the Smith family is descended from Hufflepuff, though they tried to claim the seat fifteen years ago, but were shot down by a thirty-one to nineteen vote, and they never tried again,” he finished, Hermione pursed her lips, seeing the dilemma.

So essentially, Tom saw a literal once in a lifetime opportunity, and grabbed at it with two hands, using his surrounding environments and political climate to support him in a way, that if done carefully enough, the chance of failure was unlikely? That sounded dastardly and completely on point for him, and Hermione restrained a snort. Feeling eyes on her, she turned to find Jaismine scrutinizing her.

“What is it? Something on my face?” Hermione asked, patting her face dramatically when she noticed she caught Jean-Pierre's attention, earning a giggle from the small boy, so she playfully blew a raspberry at him, which he returned exuberantly. Géraldine flashed her a smile, which she returned, before turning her attention back to her friend beside her.

“It hadn't occurred to me earlier, but in both Riddle's pre-ascension and if he wins, it may bring threats to your person,” she murmured, looking worried, “there's no doubt, in an effort to dig up dirt on him, many would have found his relation to you,” she explained, causing Ron and Harry to verbally protest immediately.

“There's no way!”  
“The Progressive Party wouldn't do that!”

Jaismine scoffed and rolled her eyes, before responding.

“Don't be naive, not everyone in the Progressive Party is an innocent do-gooder, just like everyone in the Traditional Party isn't a muggle hating devil.” before turning back to Hermione, who was still contemplating the information.

“I'm just saying, for anyone either trying to dreg up information on Riddle, or boost his name to appear sympathetic due to his relation to you, they will probably try to use you to do it,” she reiterated, and Hermione squinted her eyes in confusion.

“That doesn't make sense though, the Traditional Party likely already knows he's a half-blood, and probably already knew about me as well, perhaps what you say about using me to garner sympathy is true, but wouldn't I have already been in danger? My relation to Tom isn't necessarily new,” she reasoned, but Jaismine shook her head, though Ron, Harry and Géraldine were still as they considered her words.

“That's the thing, with the wars, not many were giving Riddle's ascension a due amount of attention, but the closer we get to the day, the more likely the support or aversion will grow, enough to make people act out of character because they'll be caught in a mob mentality. We could sit here and brainstorm all day of where, why, how, and when you might be affected, but the fact of the matter is that you should be careful,” she answered, and that was something they could all agree on.

Wizengamot Election & Audience Chamber – June 21st, 1945

Hermione stood at the railing looking down on the election chamber of the British Ministry of Magic, they were in section for the public audience, that were three levels above the ground floor, while the second floor was for the press, and the first floor was for the Wizengamot members. Kai was at her side, holding her bandaged hand lightly in his, and her friends were crowded closely around her, as the audience balcony was packed.

It seemed it was a once in a lifetime opportunity to see someone win a founder's seat, that apparently absolutely nobody wanted to miss, and Hermione briefly thought that perhaps as an immigrant, that she wasn't fully appreciating the historical context of what was happening.

Unfortunately, as it turned out, Jaismine had been right a couple of days ago, as in the last six days, Hermione had been accosted multiple times while strolling Diagon Alley, minding her own business. Thankfully, however, she hadn't been alone, having been with either Kai or one of her friends, so she hadn't actually come to any harm, but it still filled her with anxiety, as the people attacking her were just random citizens who didn't even know her.

She found out why soon after, someone had leaked her relation to Tom to the Daily Prophet, which had resulted in a full-page slander written by none other than gossip journalist Rita Skeeter. The article in question suggested that she was a free woman, a harpy of a French immigrant that was juggling and breaking the hearts of their British sons, Kai Fawley, Harry Potter, and Ronald Weasley, implying that she was carrying on affairs behind the backs of Ginny and Géraldine, which painted Tom in a saintly light for having put up with having such an embarrassment for family.

That had been the start of the hexed letters and howlers, and Tom had actually helped her weave a mail ward into his own wards on the manor, to redirect mail with an intent to harm, but it all came to a boiling point when someone sent pure undiluted bubotuber pus inside an impervioused envelope with a matching note listing all the helpful remedies it could create, which had allowed it to pass through her mail ward. It had happened at breakfast when the mail was brought in, which meant that it had also been sent the non-magical way, and she'd only opened it after scanning it discreetly for hexes.

The manor staff had to be obliviated by the Obliviator Squad from Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and she'd had to create a report when Tom helped her to St. Mungos, an event that had also made it's way to the Daily Prophet, painting Tom once more, in an incredibly sympathetic light.

Tom had apologized profusely, stating he hadn't had any idea the lengths that some would go to drag her down because of him. She wasn't sure if she entirely believed him, but he'd gently helped dress her hands this morning with murtlap essence, so she was unsure where to lay blame besides the Daily Prophet and Rita Skeeter. It was yesterday that she'd gone to Madam Potter, who thankfully believed her innocence, and recommended her to a close friend who was also a barrister, due to her own inability to represent her as she would have appeared biased. So Hermione officially filed a defamation suit against both Skeeter and the Daily Prophet, and today, almost all of Magical Britain was crammed into this auditorium to witness if Tom Riddle won the Slytherin seat.

Tom would give a speech, and a vote would be drawn, and just then, she was brought out of her thoughts as the crowd quieted down. She leaned further into Kai, breathing in his cologne, as he rested his chin on her head, only being able to because she had her hair slicked back into a bun today. She looked down to see the Wizengamot seats were filled with witches and wizards with their impressive plum covered robes. The door to the chamber opened, and Tom walked in, impressive as always with his expensive robes, flanked by three goblins, who carried a dagger, a bowl, and a scroll.

“This is the proof for the entire Wizengamot and audience that he is who he says he is,” Kai whispered in her ear, and she nodded but didn't respond, too focused on what was going on down below.

One goblin held open the scroll, while another held the bowl with what looked to be a clear potion inside. Tom rolled up the sleeves of his robes so that all could see clearly that he was playing no tricks, and held his finger over the bowl as the third goblin pricked it, letting three drops fall into the potion before stirring it with the dagger. Hermione watched in fascination as the clear potion turned a brilliant crimson, and furthermore when Tom palmed the bowl gently before pouring it down onto the flattened scroll, which immediately absorbed every drop before sprouting into existence, Tom's lineage.

Minister for Magic, Leonard Spencer-Moon, approached the scroll with a magical magnifying glass that would reveal any charms or duplicity and scoured the lineage line until satisfied, where he then declared Tom to be truthful in his claim as Salazar Slytherin's descendant.

He then gestured with a guiding arm for Tom to take his place at the podium for his speech, to which he gratefully accepted, radiating a charming countenance. Not a single soul breathed within the crowd and Hermione was certain she would be able to hear a pin drop, as Tom began to speak.

“ _Good evening to you, Minister Spencer-Moon, as well as to the respectable members of our Wizengamot, and of course, to you, the citizens of our magnificent United Kingdoms. Allow me to begin by wishing you all a joyous midsummer and a satisfying longest day of the year,”_ he paused, his voice reverberating throughout the auditorium, smooth and clear, as he waited for his words to settle, Hermione noticing the appeased expressions of the majority of the faces around her.

“ _I come here today to lay claim to the Slytherin seat, not because I feel I am entitled to it by blood and magic, no, I recognize that it takes more than that to be deemed worthy of such an honour,”_ he continued, laying an elegant hand over his heart in earnest expression, and Hermione had to hold in a scoff.

“ _But because,”_ he paused for effect, “ _I am a simple wizard, who sees the divisiveness, and the hurt within our community, caused by both ourselves, as well as outside forces, such as Grindelwald and his war. I am a wizard, who simply wants to see to it that our home flourishes once more.”_

“ _I recognize that I am being afforded a privilege here today, by everyone in this room, and in our United Kingdoms. I am being afforded the opportunity to listen to you, to be a voice for you, to speak in defence of our rights, freedoms, and traditions,”_ he continued, and Hermione saw his words for what they were, pretty jarble to maintain the status quo, she felt her eyes burn in indignation.

“ _I come to you today, as a friend, a brother, and a son, to plead to you, to let me help make our home strong, because should it not be so? Should our home not be where we are most comfortable? Should our home be subject to change, by our own thoughts and opinions, and not by those who do not call these magnificent Kingdoms home?”_ he asked, and Hermione tore her eyes away from him and the stomping of agreement from both the audience around her, the journalists, and a few members of Wizengamot.

“ _Then permit me, the seat of my ancestor, to be your ally as Lord Slytherin, as Salazar, himself, had been when he was alive, when he helped to build our beloved Hogwarts, to educate our children and prepare them for their futures. Permit me so that I may help you by being your voice in the crowd, and your wand in the battle,”_ he paused one last time, _“Permit me, and I will make it my duty to help you. Thank you.”_ he stepped back and bowed his head respectively in the face of applause.

Minister Spencer-Moon called for votes, and within minutes, Hermione's heart dropped into her stomach at the overwhelming majority in favour of ascension.

Thirty-five votes for yes, and sixteen for no, with the Minister himself casting a vote for yes. The crowds around her cheered, while she and her friends were silent. Tom turned his head upwards and stared her in the eye, a small smile crawling on his lips, she spoke softly, not breaking eye contact:  
  
  
“So this is how liberty dies, with thunderous applause.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is kinda long. 
> 
> Anyone know where I nabbed that last line? Bonus points if you do.
> 
> also I just made up that address, using some bank in Argentina as a template lol
> 
> rough translation to the letter: 
> 
> Dear Helen,
> 
> It broke my heart, to have never met you properly. I have heard from my niece, Laura, that you worry for your daughter in Great Britain. I want to make myself clear, that you and your daughter are welcome here with me and my family.
> 
> Your mother was my little sister, that I had not been able to help, and it is something I regret every day.
> 
> Regards  
> Your Uncle, Mateo Innocenti
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed the chapter.


	23. Chapter 22 - Cracks in the Mirror

**Disturbing themes end of chapter.**

Chapter 22 – Alcazar Deslizan – August 18th, 1945

Tom entered the library at Slytherin castle, surveying the structures and shelves, as well as the condition of the majority of the reading material, and satisfied that everything had been done to task, he studied a few titles. After his win of the Slytherin seat two months ago, he had been given its location and ownership, as well as that of the Slytherin vaults.

The castle itself went by the name Alcazar Deslizan, and it was situated on an island in the extreme south of Ireland, on what was now modernly known as Cape Clear Island. It was rather ancient and large, and Tom would tell that different wings and sections had been added through the years by later family members, but it still generally held strong despite being essentially abandoned since the 1400s, due to an exceptionally strong stasis charm, which would have been when the last Slytherin daughter married into the Northern English Gaunt family.

Since first stepping into the fortress, Tom had been in awe of the grand amount of history that surrounded him, however, he had decided to not live there just yet, as he'd come to the conclusion after a single tour, that it needed to be updated to a few modern standards, namely: indoor plumbing, proper insulation, and a replacement of all upholstered furniture, bedding and linens, because due to the structure standing quite strong, the interior hadn't been nearly as lucky. Though the library had had its own level of protection separate to the rest of the castle, which went to show where the priorities of his ancestors laid, not that he was complaining.

Basically an extensive amount of work needed to be done for the castle to be livable by today's standards, and he had looped all of his knights into helping him organize it. Orion had been in charge of hiring companies for the indoor construction, while Abraxas took charge of hiring interior designers. He'd asked Bella and Rudolphous to find him some elves, as the practice of utilizing them hadn't been around back when this castle was fully functional (that had started somewhere in the 1600s).

Evan had personally taken charge of modernizing the kitchens (plural, as there were three, why? He couldn't say) and Frederick had been tasked with finding an exterior construction company to reaffirm the castle's foundations, as Tom didn't quite trust that it wouldn't collapse in on itself once every single stasis charm had been undone. Finally, after two months of work from over one hundred different workers, the castle was finished, and he was taking the first tour.

He ran a finger gently against the spines of the books on the shelves, noting the variety of languages and subjects, wryly observing that the majority were of a darker nature. He could almost feel the eyes of Salazar from his painting follow him, his access to the Slytherin vaults had found him pleasantly surprised at their contents.

One was filled with relics, and the other was filled with gold, not, of course, that he needed money anyhow, as Riddle money was just as useful. What surprised him had been the presence of portraits of the earliest Slytherin family members, including Salazar himself, all charmed to sleep and stashed to the back of the vault, like some shameful secret.

He'd remembered that there had only ever been one portrait of Slytherin in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts, that portrayed a withered old man, with a beard that trailed to his feet, who rarely spoke, and when he did, it was to spew anti-muggle and muggleborn rhetoric in Old English.

Suffice to say, the portrait he had found had been when his ancestor was a young man, no older than thirty. He had dark, thick hair that was braided over his shoulder and tanned skin. His eyes were a pale green (very much like Tom's own colour) and his face was rectangular, with a strong jaw and a slightly hooked nose, but with delicately shaped eyebrows. Tom couldn't truly tell, due to the proportions of the painting, but he was under the assumption that Slytherin had been quite short.

The other portraits had been of Slytherin's parents and grandparents, as well as one of his younger sister, who had apparently died young, as she appeared no older than eleven in her portrait.

He hadn't told anyone of the portraits, because he'd found out soon after why they had been hidden away as they had because the truth of his ancestor was some truly groundbreaking information, enough to cause a sinkhole in the land's current politics, politics that had given him his seat, this castle and his power.

He had found out by talking to the younger Salazar in parseltongue (as he did not speak English as he knew it, in fact, his first language was Castilian, while his second was Irish Gaelic, and third was Old English) that Salazar Slytherin had never been a pureblood at all, but a half-blood.

He had spent an entire evening speaking to his ancestor, and he had learned a lot, firstly that his name was not even Slytherin, but Deslizan, and that his full name was Salazar Ciarán Deslizan, and that he had only anglicized his name for the house system at the school.

He had learned that he had been born in this very castle to a half-blood father, named Esteban Malek Deslizan y ibn Mehjabeen and a pureblood mother, Niamh Orlagh Peverell.

Furthermore, that it was his grandfather, Esteban Salazar Deslizan y Gomez de Ayala, and grandmother, Mehjabeen ibnat Malek al Madinat-Salim who had first built the fortress in 915 A.D upon escaping Castile and Madinat-Salim due to the scandal of his pureblooded grandmother eloping with his “magica-neuvo” grandfather.

Learning the Salazar Slytherin's grandfather had been muggleborn, and that the infamous parseltongue ability had, in fact, come from his Umayyad pureblood grandmother, had certainly popped a few holes in Tom's beliefs.

He understood now the reason for hiding the portraits, as his ancestor in all his captured and sane clarity had explained that his disdain for muggleborns was not because they were inherently inferior, but because they had been beholden to their non-magical beliefs and families, families that had been hunting down their kind and killing them.

Salazar explained how his younger sister had died, that during a trip the mainland, she had been caught by a few of the local men in an act of accidental magic while separated from their father, that she had been raped and beaten to death, and she had only been ten.

This humanization of the UK's most notorious bigot would never have allowed the sphere of power that had been built upon the discrimination of muggles and muggleborns to persist, so of course, the truth had been hidden away, in favour of the founder's more senile portrait, that further led credence to the structure of power currently in place.

On that note, Tom thought that something must have happened for Slytherin's views to turn so drastic, that it affected his mental capabilities later in life, to the point that he would infamously duel Gryffindor over these beliefs, and furthermore, leave Hogwarts, and never return.

Not necessarily in a mood to speak to his ancestor now, Tom decided against grabbing a book and turned to exit the library. When he had decided to return the portraits to the castle, he had not considered being challenged on everything he knew and believed, a lot of which he'd adopted during his years at Hogwarts. When he had first been sorted into Slytherin, he'd had become the infamous Slytherin mudblood, the anomaly in the house that had never seen a muggleborn before.

Nothing he had said had spared him the antagonism of his housemates, as anything he would have said would have either been construed as a weakness, or a lie to protect himself. So, he'd had to become much more vicious than them, striking back three times as hard as they, ripped homework had been rewarded with broken bones, and name-calling had been answered with merciless hexes, until eventually, they got the message and left him alone.

He scaled the stairs heading towards the “family” wing, thinking how his housemates had gone from being afraid of him, to grudgingly respecting him, to eventually becoming his friends, to finally becoming his knights. Though he was certain of one thing through his years of Hogwarts, he had never truly believed the pureblood pomposity, after all, how could he? He had muggle blood himself, his disdain for muggleborns had been both a holdover from being a bullied child and that of a boy hoping to make his ancestor proud upon discovery of his lineage.

It also fell in line with the path to power he'd craved, and had recently come to acquire, so would he now change it? No. Though this information might change the way he understood the world, and that of magical races, and perhaps he'd be a changed man if he'd ever felt an iota of empathy even once in his life, but he found the status quo benefited him, so, he would do nothing with this information, and furthermore, he would keep the portraits, as no one would be able to understand them anyway.

For now, he would stay the course, politically at least, his next goal there would be to decriminalize certain magics, as it had been a repeated talking point during his campaign by the Traditional Party, and since they'd essentially given him the power he had now, he would oblige them.

Upon reaching the set of rooms that he'd claimed as his own, he admired the work that had been done, Abraxas and Orion had really outdone themselves. The stone floor and walls remained, though thick carpets had been added, the cracks between all the brickwork had been caulked, and proper windows had been added to fully protect the rooms and insulate them. In both the sitting room, full private bath, and bedroom, all of the furniture was of a dark wood carved with snakes.

Walking into the bedroom, he appraised the dark green linens briefly before his eyes settled on the door to the left of the bed. Walking towards it and opening it, a purr of satisfaction curled in his chest at the attached bedroom that he found.

The furniture was made from the same dark wood as his own, however, instead of snakes carved upon the wood, the edges were carved with a braiding pattern similar to the Celtic knot, and a few fleurs-de-lis upon the corners. The bed linens were of a pale lilac, the exact colour of the robes Hermione had worn to the Slug Gala a year and a half ago, specifically the night he'd realized that he'd wanted her. It was the perfect colour, though of course it would be, after all, this room would be hers.

He thought of her for a moment, when he'd told her that he hadn't truly considered that she would be attacked so severely during his campaign, he hadn't been lying, he hadn't had anything to do with the Prophet article or the letters. Of course, he was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so when that development occurred, he had absolutely used it to his advantage. Truly, if he was being honest, it had given him a sliver of satisfaction to see her brought low, though, in his defence, he had been quite angry with her.

Truthfully, he thought Abraxas might have been responsible, as he'd never forgiven her for slapping him, whoever had said that hell hath no fury than a woman scorned, had truly never seen a scorned peacock.

He went to the wardrobe and opened it, running his hand along the variety of expensive women's robes, all some sort of pale colour. It had been his own, personal, contribution to the room, seeing that they were the type of colours he liked the best on her, as they always complimented beautifully against her complexion.

Closing the wardrobe and making his way out of the rooms, he headed towards the entrance hall, where the floo was located, and called for Riddle manor while throwing a handful of powder in, he stepped through into Helen's office. The woman in question was seated at her desk, reading the muggle newspaper, and decided he had time today to inflict his presence on her, he took a seat across, with his hands in the pockets of his robes.

“Anything new?” he asked, hand fiddling with the chain in his pocket.

He had nabbed a time turner from the Department of Mysteries, it was an open secret that the Unspeakables abused the use of time turners with no actual recording for their own personal projects, nobody ever said anything, due to the illegality of the action, though they were usually used so that they could actually sleep in between studies and experiments.

Tom had an idea that required the use of one, so no one said anything when he borrowed one, not that they would, without implicating themselves.

Helen levelled a stare at him, before simply handing him the newspaper. Dropping the chain and taking his hands out of his pockets, he took it from her, and upon reading the title, his eyebrows shot up to his forehead.

“Did you know about these?” he asked, as he read the devastation in Japan by the Americans, and he'd thought the London blitz had been bad, incredulously he gazed at the photos that displayed mushroom clouds over what used to be the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

“Of course not, those were all the Americans, though if anyone in Britain knew about it, it would have been Churchill. I suppose it got the point across though, Japan officially surrendered on the fifteenth,” she answered folding her hands under her chin, she looked troubled.

“Even as arms manufacturers and dealers ourselves, I'd never thought to see the day where man-made weapons could cause that much devastation,” she continued, and he scoffed.

“You are not trying to convince me that you have a conscious now that the war is over, just admit you happily benefited and continue on with your life, no need to pretend to be horrified over acts of war now,” he jibed, and she tilted her head at him.

“I don't regret my actions, but it doesn't mean I don't wish I never needed to. I'm certainly guilty enough both directly and indirectly and I acknowledge that.” he perked at that, running his tongue over his teeth inside his mouth, as intrigue buzzed through him.

“You've killed? Personally?” he asked, his voice low and interested, she leaned back in her seat and regarded him as if deciding whether to answer him or not.

“I have, three Nazi soldiers, to protect Hermione,” she paused, “and rest assured, I would do it again.” her eyes pierced his and dove into the memory that echoed in her mind, not what actually happened, but just the memory of shooting three soldiers in the head. He was entertained that she clearly knew he was a legilimens, as she usually made effort to never make eye contact with him, and certainly, she was threatening him, but he found he was too amused to be angry. He was more interested in their apparent similarities than their few and far in between differences.

He could feel his mouth curl into a smile, before the floo roared to life, swiping both of their attentions, as Hermione stumbled through, landing on her side.

Tom watched as she sprung back to her feet, favouring her left leg, an lunge for the floor powder on the shelf to presumably go back to where she stumbled in from, and with a flick of his wand, he sealed the floo connection, before she could throw her handful in and call for 'Diagon Alley'.

When it didn't work, she whirled around to pin him with a furious stare, but Helen was already on her feet and heading towards Hermione. He took the opportunity to activate the anti-apparition wards he'd set up when he first created the protective wards, for good measure.

“Open to floo, Tom,” the girl demanded, and he cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Not before you explain why you are in the shape that you are,” he retorted, gesturing to her bleeding leg and dishevelled state of dress, noting a few braids that came out of the bun they'd been tied into at the top of her head.

“I don't have time for this! Open the damn floo!” she yelled at him, a look of panic flashing across her face, he instead got up and leaned against the mantle of the fireplace, while Helen cupped her daughter's shoulders.

“What happened?” and it seemed the gentle tone Helen had used had done the trick, as Hermione burst into tears.

“Grindelwald and his men attacked Diagon Alley, there was an explosion, I was with Kai, and we ran for the floo, oh my god, there were bodies lying everywhere, and there were some kids, and he just activated the floo and threw me in, I need to go-” she was hysterical at this point, and Tom cut her off.

“-You need to go where? Go help? You are not an Auror and you can barely stand on that leg,” he scoffed, “You are staying right here, and not going off to play hero only to get yourself killed.” he crossed his arms over his chest, and Helen gently moved a braid from Hermione's forehead to calm her.

“I agree with Tom on this one, I'd prefer if you'd stay here,” she spoke softly, though her tone booked no room for argument, Hermione was livid, she tore herself from her mother's arms.

“You cannot keep me 'ere, so you locked the floo, I can still 'pparate,” she snapped, her accent coming through stronger than he's heard it become in over a year. He watched her eyes widen when she realized she couldn't apparate either, she looked to him pleadingly.

“You set anti-apparition wards? Please, let me out, I need to do something,” she whispered, as if hoping to change his mind, and he looked her dead in the eye.

  
“No.”

  
She lunged herself at him, and he stunned her silently, catching her as she fell. She was clearly distressed and incapable of reason, so it seemed to be his only choice, while Helen looked on furiously at him.

“What did you do?!” she snapped, and he scoffed and ignored her in favour of carrying Hermione to the couch on the far wall.

“Relax, she's just stunned, she's hysterical right now, and it's for her own safety,” he replied, as he laid her down, grabbing the blanket from the top of the couch and throwing it over her, before heading back to the desk and dropping himself into his original seat. Helen nodded, calming down, and headed to the bar.

“Drink?” she asked, pouring herself one.

“Sure,” he huffed a small laugh, while he adjusted the wards on the property, to not let anyone in or out. They were his favourite part about them, that anyone approaching the manor now would instantly remember something they needed to do elsewhere, and anyone trying to leave will remember something they forgot to do inside the manor. He'd based the schematics off of the Hogwarts wards in that design, so as to not incite panic for when he did activate them.

He'd had to renew the four sacrifices a year to keep them incredibly strong, that not even individuals with exceptionally strong minds would be able to fight it.

Was it a complicated bit of magic that was borderline an invasion of privacy? Yes. Did he care? No.

He didn't want to have to worry about the manor staff going in and out of the grounds, and he didn't need Hermione fighting with him over the injustice of clipping her wings, or whatever metaphorical nonsense she'd use to describe it.

He took the glass from Helen and took a sip of the scotch, giving himself a minute before he would go wake Hermione, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, savouring the burn.

“So, anything else you'd like to tell me about the wards on the manor?” Helen asked and Tom opened his eyes, she had her elbows on the desk, tumbler dangling from one hand.

“Not necessarily, there were some restrictive features, but they are mainly for the safety of the inhabitants of the manor in the event of an attack,” he fibbed, he wasn't exactly lying, as in the event of an attack, it would keep everyone safe, that just hadn't technically been the priority when he created the feature.

Nobody could apparate in or out, besides himself, he had control over to floo, he knew who and where everyone was in the manor, and he could prevent anyone from coming or going with the aversion aspect.

“Normally all the features are on standby, so as to not impede anyone, this is the first time I've ever had to activate any of them,” he took another sip, he considered what Hermione had said, Grindelwald attacking with his men, how did they even enter the UK?

Perhaps it was a plot to get Dumbledore to act? And if Dumbledore lost, what would that mean for the UK? He doubted everyone would actively give up, and he was generally certain he would be safe, but...he glanced at Hermione on the couch, and tapped his finger against his glass pensively.

“Well, in any case...though I don't approve, thank you, for keeping her here,” Helen spoke solemnly, gazing at her daughter, and Tom had to suppress a snort, thinking it must kill her to thank him for anything. Not to mention the idea of her thanking him for keeping her daughter safe, when self-admittedly, he was the biggest danger to her, honestly tickled him.

He didn't think he'd legitimately harm Hermione, of course, he wasn't a complete savage, but he was self-aware enough to know that his quest to have her would be unlikely to end in her happiness, and to be truthful, he didn't really give a damn.

He nodded, accepting her gratitude, before getting up to walk over to the couch, and kneel himself down beside it, as he cast a _rennervate_ on Hermione, watching, entranced, as she slowly opened her eyes, before turning her head to look at him, and she held his gaze for a moment before narrowing her own into a glare.

“Did you stun me?” she asked, almost incredulous before sitting up and moving the blanket off of her.

“Yes, I did, though in my defence, you were being unreasonable,” he replied softly, resting an elbow on his knee and chin in his hand. He watched as she looked confused for a moment before springing into a stand and dashing for the floo.

“I have to-” she slowed down as if she'd forgotten her train of thought, before turning and heading towards the door to the office.

“I think I need another book,” she said resolutely, and Tom, satisfied, stood and looked towards Helen, who looked disturbed at seeing his wards in action, he returned to the desk and grabbed his glass of scotch before downing it all back.

“I will accompany Hermione to the library,” he said after swallowing the liquor, and placing his glass back down on the desk, “I will see what I can find out about Grindelwald as well, and inform you of anything I find,” he finished, before turning and leaving the office, following Hermione to the library, and once there he healed her leg and fixed her blue sundress.

He spent the rest of the day with her, while she read and he communicated with his knights via the journal for information. Apparently Dumbledore was going to fight Grindelwald after all, and Tom brainstormed that perhaps it was the perfect time to use the trinket in his pocket.

Hermione had remembered multiple times and tried to leave, but came back each time to the library until she finally retired for the night, and when she did, Tom went back to his rooms to dress in plain black robes with a larger hood, and grabbing his spare Knockturn alley wand, he apparated to a small alley of Little Hangleton village. By staying outside of his wards, he didn't risk the chance of setting them off and alerting his other self when he turned back time, and so, with little fanfare, he looped the chain over his neck, and noting the time at a quarter to midnight, turned the hourglass the appropriate amount, and disappeared.

**Disturbing themes of violence ahead**

Rathlin Island / Northern Ireland – August 18th, 1945

He leaned against the wall of the empty house he was currently using, eyeing Kai Fawley who was a bit tied up at the moment. His hands were bound above his head and his toes only barely skimmed the floor, he was spelled silent and immobile, his wand in Tom's pocket. The other wizard glared at him bravely, though he could see the undercurrent of fear in his dark eyes, his nostrils flaring as if he understood what was about to happen. The locket felt heavy on his chest, as if it too understood what would happen tonight, as if it understood that it would join the Gaunt ring as one of his Horcruxes.

“Don't look at me like that, it's truly nothing personal,” he paused, before a slow smile crawled upon his lips, “actually, that's a lie, it absolutely is personal, you put your hands on something that belongs to me.” It had been too easy, he had travelled to Diagon Alley to around the time he would have still been at Alcazar Deslizan, estimating that Hermione had shown up around three in the afternoon, so he needed to be there at the exact moment Fawley launched her through the floo to implement his plan.

He'd applied his disillusionment and had waited, he had heard from his knights that the attacks and explosions had started further up the alley, so he made sure to avoid those areas. It was half past two when the first explosion sounded, screams were heard from civilians as pops from apparitions sounded in the air, he vaguely thought he saw a man with spiked white hair and black robes, calmly surveying the damage, but paid him no mind.

Soon enough, Fawley came running through the crowd, half carrying Hermione due to her injured leg, he watched as the wizard became distracted by unaccompanied crying children, watched as he grabbed the floo powder and yelled for Riddle manor before shoving Hermione through the flames, before turning to go to the children, who were obscured by more smoke and running bodies now.

It was a damn shame he never made it to them, as in one breath, Tom stunned him and grabbing his arm, apparated them both away, all the way to this remote island in Northern Ireland, that Antonin had once used for less than legal activities, which Tom had helped him with in exchange for helping make Hermione's gift last year.

“Though I have to say, I'm curious, was fucking her really worth it?” he asked, walking up to him and looking him in the eye, but decided he wanted to hear the words from his mouth, he silenced the house and undid the silencing charm on him, the wizard surely deserved some last words, anyhow.

“You're going to kill me aren't you?” Fawley asked, before his eyes widened in realization, “You're going to kill me because you want her,” he continued, and Tom smiled, leaning back on one foot.

“Yes, I do, shame that you have to die, but never fear, your death will not be in vain,” he placed a hand over his heart and spoke earnestly, and Fawley scoffed, before licking his chapped lips.

“She doesn't want you, and she is never going to want you, you can kill as many people as you want, but nothing will change that,” he spoke lowly, and ice coiled in Tom's chest, as a slow smile reached his lips.

“Oh, we'll see about that, all it'll take is the right amount of manipulation to get exactly what I want,” he spoke lightly, thoroughly enjoying the look of alarm on his captive's face, before re-silencing him and grabbing his jaw to make eye contact, “but for now, I suppose I'll have to live vicariously through you.” and with that, he tore through Fawley's thoughts and memories.

He stopped almost cold when he came upon a memory from this morning, as he'd recognized her hair and dress, he clenched his jaw in fury at Hermione on her knees, with Fawley's cock in her mouth, those cat-like brown eyes looking up at him, at Fawley.

He fast-forwarded the memory to her bent over the kitchen table, her blue sundress piled up on her back and around her waist while Fawley rammed into her, as she keened and scrambled for purchase, before screaming as she came.

He continued to tear through the wizard's mind for more, like a junkie looking for another fix, or an alcoholic for another sip, and he found so many more, eagerly watching all of them. Memories of them in the shower, of Fawley's head between her legs, of her on top, grinding away, and her on her knees with her arse in the air.

He kept going, uncaring of the blood flowing from his captive's nose, only stopping when eye contact was broken, as Fawley's eyes rolled back into his head. He stepped backwards, panting, wincing at his apparent arousal, so he reached into his robes and tucked himself into the waistband of his undergarments.

He glanced at his watch, noting that two hours had passed and that his other self would be in the library with Hermione still. So, regaining his wits, he decided on what he wanted to do, twirling his spare wand in his hand, before casting a standard bubbleheaded charm around himself, he then proceeded to cast a modified inverted version around Fawley, with a few holes for air, before casting _incendio_ on the bottom of the other wizard's robe.

Apathetically, he watched as Fawley died, suffocating due to the lack of air caused by the fire inside the inverted bubblehead, which also prevented the flames from spreading to anywhere else in the house, and small holes used to feed the destruction with more air, to keep it from snuffing out.

He watched every aching second as skin, muscle, and tendon, melted and his eyes exploded, but all he could think about was Hermione on her knees with this sorry excuse for a wizard's cock in her mouth, rage boiling in his gut hotter than the fire that was destroying Kai Fawley's corpse.

He briefly wondered what his life would have been like had he been like everyone else, with an exhausting belief in the intrinsic value of human life, and being utterly unable to picture it, he continued with his plan. Gathering his magic, he pulled at the severed piece of his soul, caressing it gently while guiding it to Slytherin's locket that was cradled in his hands.

He was dazed to notice that it hadn't hurt so much this time around, and Tom theorized that it was probably because he'd done it before. Feeling hollow, he stood and watched his handiwork, until the fire had nothing left to burn, and pieces of charred skeleton littered the ground. He looked at his watch to see that it was ten at night, he had a little under two hours to get back to Little Hangleton.

He carefully knelt down and laid a scarf down, levitating all remaining pieces onto it before bundling it up, scourgifying the entire house, and double scourgifying the specific area of death as well as himself, before disillusioning himself and apparating to the north shore of the island.

He walked to the small cliff, the wind braying at his robes as he emptied the contents of the scarf, letting the ocean take everything left of Kai Fawley, before burning the scarf with a quick _incendio_ and dropping it onto the ground. He then took out Fawley's wand, and admiring it for a moment, he snapped it in half and threw it in after it's master.

Once he was sure it was all gone, he apparated to Alcazar Deslizan to shower and further destroy the robes he was wearing, as well as leave his spare wand in the small vault in the basement of the castle, before apparating back to Little Hangleton with minutes to spare as his other self disappeared from the small alleyway.

Tom was only mildly concerned that after the creation of the Horcrux, he felt like everything he did was in a blur that he hadn't much control over, however, he decided to shake off the feeling, and tired of apparating, he walked back to the manor. Once back in his rooms, he retired for the night, clutching Slytherin's locket close to his chest, his dreams featuring cracks in the mirror and cat-like brown eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed a solo-Tom chapter.
> 
> so yeah, Tom is pretty fucked up with a capitol 'F'. I like to think I'm writing him with an extreme take on antisocial personality disorder, like he's charming, and can act a mean game, but literally hasn't got the tiniest amount of empathy whatsoever.
> 
> A lot of you thought he had something to do with the Prophet scandal of last chapter, but honestly, I just took that pretty much straight from the fourth book, with a few obvious tweeks. Rita Skeeter wrote about Hermione cheating on Harry with Viktor, and someone legit sent a minor an envelope filled with bubotuber pus in retaliation. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	24. Chapter 23 - Take Me To Church

**Depressive thoughts warning, and smut in this chapter.**

Chapter 23 – The Burrow – September 19th, 1945

Hermione stood at the washbasin, manually scrubbing pots, pans and dishes used during breakfast at The Burrow, it was the morning of her twentieth birthday, and she'd been asked by Ginny to stay about a week ago, which she gladly accepted in order to further avoid Riddle manor, seeing that she hasn't been back in a month.

The battle between Grindelwald and Dumbledore had almost lasted three days, and during those days, the entirety of the United Kingdom had waited with bated breath in radio silence for an outcome. It was on the third day that a collective sigh of relief had been released when Dumbledore had emerged victorious, abound and disarmed Grindelwald kneeling adjacent to him.

Aurors and Hit Wizards from all over the continent had arrived to help round up the rest of Grindelwald's supporters, while the citizens of Magical UK had gathered to help rebuild and to find and arrange burials for all the civilian casualties.

Said casualties of the attack had been high, and there had been many unidentifiable human remains from the fires and explosions, and though it had been claimed, a month after the attack, that rebuilding had been finished, and all victims had been found and claimed by their families, unfortunately, none of those who'd been found, had been Kai.

She had raged helplessly at both Tom and her mother, who for the first time ever, stood in agreement with each other, and were both immovable in the face of her pleas. The indignity of having her bodily and mental autonomy taken from her by the wards of Riddle manor distressed and disgusted her, and that was the say nothing of the inherent betrayal by her mother, who had stood in defence of Tom's actions. The worst of it is that she understood the logic behind such wards, after all, the manor was home to more than just her, her mother and Tom. There were a total of twenty other persons living there as staff, that it was one neat activation that accounted for everyone without sacrificing the Statute of Secrecy, made sense in theory, however, ethically, it was morally horrifying.

As soon as Grindelwald had been defeated, and Tom had deactivated the emergency wards, Hermione had hightailed it out of there faster than a sinner in church, finding herself a blubbering mess at Ron and Harry's flat. That was when she'd found out, that of the casualties, one of them had been Fred, as his and George's joke shop had been right by the explosions. Angelina's shop had also been demolished as well, though thankfully, she'd closed shop for the weekend to visit her parents in Cornwall, ultimately saving her life, and though George had been found, thankfully alive, and missing an ear, he'd been understandably inconsolable at the loss of his twin.

She had spent the first two weeks staying with Géraldine, while helping volunteer to clean up, in hopes that she could find what happened to Kai, and when she hadn't been doing that, she'd been going to burials and funerals. Her resolve and inner strength waned as the days and weeks passed with no sign of Kai, and a week ago, Ginny had requested that they all stay at The Burrow, as Fred's death had hit Molly exceptionally hard.

So here she was, helping with household chores, attempting to ignore the mountainous amount of guilt building in her, guilt for not doing anything differently that could have prevented Kai's disappearance/presumed death, guilt for being unable to look Kai's mother in the eyes, and guilt at the catatonic look of Molly Weasley's face at the death of one of her seven children, while she hid away and villainized her own mother for only wanting to protect her. She blamed her for not letting her decide her own actions for herself, but after spending a week at The Burrow, she was beginning to acknowledge that had her mother done that, she could have easily been in the same catatonic state as Molly, had she died due to her own decisions.

It was all so messed up and it ate at her insides, and she didn't know when it started, but she began to wake up in the morning already weary of the day, with a weight that seemed to immediately settle itself onto her shoulders, temples and spine. She felt like Atlas carrying the weight of the world, and all she wanted to do was lie down, however, instead of giving in to that urge, she got up every morning with Ron, Ginny and Harry to make breakfast for the entire household, before cleaning up and heading to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to check on the status of Kai's missing person report.

She then proceeded to head to the firm to put in a few hours of work, despite Madam Potter giving her bereavement leave, but as the older witch also busied herself in the office in what she called “attempting to feel useful in the face of tragedy”, she didn't berate Hermione when she showed up anyway. At the end of the day, she'd head back to The Burrow, after hours of refusing to look towards Kai's office door, lump lodged firmly in her throat, and burning behind her eyes, where she'd help prepare dinner, help clean up, and head to Ginny's room to sleep, only to do it all again the next day.

She was broken out of her reverie by Harry, who placed a hand gently on her shoulder to get her attention, and like her, he too had bags under his eyes, and she felt for him, as well as for all the Weasleys, he too had been close to Fred. Though she hadn't been in the UK long, she also mourned Fred's death, despite not being as close to them as Harry, who'd known them almost his entire life, she'd still come to know and care for both of the twins in her time here, so his death, on top of Kai's disappearance, made her feel like her life was falling apart.

He asked if she was ready to go, and she looked down into the washbasin to see that she'd cleaned all the dishes while caught in her thoughts, so she nodded, drying her hands on the towel hanging from the cupboard, before heading to grab her robes off the rack beside the floo and throwing them over her head. She fastened a belt around her waist to cinch them and proceeded to button up the cuffs of her sleeves, as well as her collar. She reached down to pull on her boots and checked her pockets to make sure she had everything, everything being the purple beaded bag stuffed into her pocket with an undetectable extension charm that held her entire life currently.

She caught sight of her hair in the mirror on the far wall and winced, she tried to fluff it to look more presentable, only to fail miserably, as one half of her head, her curls were flat, while the other half was doing its own thing. It had been a week since she last washed it, so she sighed and grabbed a ribbon from the bag in her pocket, using 'accio' instead of sticking her whole arm in, she tied it loosely around her head, before pulling the strings to create a giant puff on her head.

She turned to Harry, and shrugged, indicating that it was the best she could do for now, before followed him to grab a handful of floo powder, calling for the Ministry of Magic Atrium. She walked through the flames after her friend, thanking him when he charmed the ashes off of her and took his arm when he politely offered it. That was generally the gist of her friendship with Harry, quiet and understanding, for the most part, at least, when he wasn't being a sarcastic brat about everything, and she wasn't righteously sniping or berating him about one topic or another. They fell into an easy friendship, where although they didn't always see eye to eye, they did unfailingly support each other without being told to.

They were almost at the lifts when they heard a rushing of clacking heels against the marble of the atrium floors, and woman's voice calling their names, they turned to see Rita Skeeter, in all her neon glory. Hermione could already feel the migraine resonating in her brain.

“Ms. Skeeter, as per my defamation suit against you, you are violating the agreed-upon terms by stopping to engage me now, you do know that right?” Hermione clipped, not willing to put up with the gossip columnist's nonsense. Her case in June had been settled in office when she sued the Daily Prophet for monetary reparations in light of the harassment she received due to their articles, as well as requested a restraining order against Ms. Skeeter, in which she could not approach or write about her in any manner.

That, of course, hadn't stopped the witch from seeking comments from her regarding any of Tom's political moves, claiming that her actions hardly went against terms of agreement when the topic wasn't about Hermione herself.

“Just a quick question, what are your thoughts on Lord Slytherin's offence against the bill that criminalizes certain magicks?” she asked, undeterred, before pausing to look at their joined arms, “Mr. Potter, already moved on now that Ms. Weasley has been travelling with the Holyhead Harpies?” she asked coyly, and Hermione bristled at her attempt to subvert her terms of the agreement by asking Harry. Though Harry, bless him, really, didn't miss a beat.

“You are incorrect, I love Ginny Weasley with my entire existence, and you can quote that,” he retorted, dryly, before placing a hand on her back to steer her away from the infuriating harpy. Once inside the lift, they let out a sigh of relief when it began moving, glad to be rid of the gossip columnist.

“Somehow, I think she'd still take my words and twist them,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose after removing his glasses.

“Probably,” Hermione snorted, patting him on the back comfortingly, “whatever she writes, you have my truthful witness, whatever it's worth,” she continued dryly, both of them leaving the lift as it pinged to the appropriate floor. He guided her towards the investigations department, before saying goodbye and wishing her a happy birthday as he headed further down the hall to the Aurors office.

She took a deep breath, and stepped into the office, taking a seat in the waiting area until the secretary was unoccupied. She wondered if she would see Ron, his internship was in this office, and he'd spent the night at Géraldine's last night, due to Jean-Pierre exhibiting accidental magic that had spooked his older sister, and had almost taken down a door (long story).

She looked up and saw that the secretary was still busy speaking to someone else, so she half-heartedly studied her nails and hands, she had a hangnail that was particularly painful from all the dish-washing she's been doing, and her skin looked rough around her knuckles, but the idea of doing more than she already was, even if it was self-care seemed herculean, so she probably wouldn't do anything about it.

“Hermione?” she heard and she snapped her head up to see Ron walk through the department, she smiled and gave a small wave.

“Checking on Kai's report?” he asked sincerely, and she nodded, causing his expression to turn apologetic, she frowned.

“No news?” she asked, helplessly, and he shook his head.

“Not that I know of, and Madam Fawley has already been here today, you missed her by not even a half-hour, did you want me to call Gamp anyway?” he asked, and Hermione shook her head.

Kwame Gamp, who was in charge of Kai's case, was already an intimidating wizard, who didn't appreciate being taken away from his work, so Hermione was hard-pressed to bother him if Kai's mother had already been in to check, there was no need to disrupt him for the second time today.

“Alright, if you're certain,” he responded warily, so she sent him a reassuring smile so as not to worry him, before getting up to leave the office, waving goodbye and heading towards the lifts.

As she waited for the lift, she mentally berated herself for being so unnecessary. She felt angry at herself, she'd only been courting Kai for a while, and her relationship was not nearly so important as the one he'd had with his mother. She stopped herself, she found she had these thoughts often, where she'd second guess the importance of her input, or presence, and it always made her feel so tired, and more than anything, she wanted to talk to her mother about it, but she was also still so angry with her and didn't want to give in to this imagined battle of wits that she was waging.

More than ever, she felt so alone, regardless of how many people she surrounded herself with, and her thoughts were so crowded and loud, even when the room around her was silent.

She thought perhaps that it was time to speak to a doctor, but grimaced when she realized that she'd just end up in a padded room if her fatigue problems were perceived as mental disruptions.

Her thoughts abruptly silenced when the lift dinged and the door opened, and Hermione saw Tom standing there, speaking to Orion Black, but his gaze and attention snapped to her almost immediately. She frowned, but entered the lift anyway, she saw that the atrium was already called for, and looked resolutely ahead, intending to ignore him.

When the lift reached her destination, she made to get out, but Tom's hand gripped her elbow. Orion Black instead exited the lift, giving Tom a lazy wave of his hand in salute, only barely sliding his eyes over her uninterested, before making his way further from the lifts. She snapped her attention to the man at her side, ready to berate him, but he turned his head to the lift attendant.

“Tom,” she started, but he held up a finger to stop her.

“Level Nine, please,” he requested politely, and the attendant nodded, repeating the destination before cranking the lever.

When they were at their destination and out of the lift, she tore herself from his grasp and turned to face him.

“What do you think you're doing!?” she snapped at him, and he had the gall to smile at her irritation, and the audacity to not even answer her, instead, he quirked his finger for her to follow him. She had half a mind to turn away and walk away, just to spite him, but her curiosity got the better of her, not to mention, his presence, however irritating, quieted the mental self-deprecation marathon her brain had been running, so with a huff, she followed him.

They walked for about a minute before she realized they were in the Department of Magical Transportation, they entered one of the offices, and as they stood in line, she turned to him, confused, to ask them why they were there, but before she could, he reached out his hand and smoothed the space between her eyebrows with his thumb.

“You're going to get wrinkles if you keep furrowing your eyebrows like that,” he murmured, and she rolled her eyes, slapping his hand away.

“I'm going to get early wrinkles anyway just from you stressing me out,” she retorted, glancing around the office, noting the same marble flooring as the rest of the ministry, mahogany counters and moving posters with different international destinations.

“Are we in the Portkey Departure Office? What for?” she asked before it hit her, and she turned back to him, “no, absolutely not, how do you know if I don't have plans already?”

“I'm sure you have nothing dire that can't be rescheduled on your birthday and don't worry, you'll be back at your animal den in time for dinner,” he drawled, walking to the front counter when the previous customer left and turned his attention to the ministry employee, an old crone who must have been a least a hundred years old.

“Good morning, Mrs. Gerbert, I'd like to activate a port-key I ordered last week with specific co-ordinations for two people, please,” he spoke charmingly, and the old bat, Mrs. Gerbert, smiled and turned towards the filing cabinet beside her.

“Name?” she asked, hands poised to flick through the files.

  
“Slytherin.”

  
Hermione's head snapped up to look at him, was he officially going by the Slytherin name now? She supposed it would make sense, she doubted any of the purebloods who'd voted him into power, were too ecstatic with a half-blood with a non-magical surname taking one of the most notorious pureblood lordships in the UK.

Mrs. Gerbert paused and peered at him suspiciously, and as if recognizing him, sprung to action looking for the file, and Hermione attempted to refrain from rolling her eyes, clearly, it was a name with unimaginable amounts of power, and Tom taking it now made even more sense.

“Of course, Lord Slytherin,” the employee chimed, pulling a silver chain and vial with a memory out of the appropriate file, she then proceeded to pour the memory into the Pensieve and dive in. After a few minutes, she emerged, and holding the chain in her hand, she spelled it into a portkey, before handing it over to Tom.

“That will be 68 galleons, thirty for each traveller, and eight galleons for the making of the portkey” she clipped, and Tom handed her a small bag filled with coins, to which she peered in and nodded approvingly.

“And may I see the wands of those travelling?” she asked, and he handed over his wand, giving her a cut eye when she didn't comply immediately, she huffed and handed her wand over. Mrs. Gerbert took down the information provided by the wands and handed them back.

“Very good, there you are, your portkey leaves in four minutes and twenty-seven seconds, the current time is eleven o' two in the morning, and the time at your destination will be six o' six in the morning, your portkey will reactivate to bring you back in exactly eight hours, thank you and have a nice trip,” she finished, waving her arm in a wide arch to the room to their left, and strapping her wand back to arm, she followed Tom, holding out her wrist when he asked so that he could loop the portkey chain around it, before repeating the gesture on himself.

“Where are we going that has a five-hour time difference?” she asked wearily, she was already exhausted with the day. Tom merely shrugged, making the undignified gesture look elegant, and told her she'd just have to wait and see.

She sighed through her nose, chiding herself mentally for forgetting how insufferable he could be, but stammered when a few seconds before the portkey activated, he pulled her against him, one hand wrapping around the back of her neck, and his other arm wrapping around her waist. Before she could lecture him, she felt the nauseating pull at her naval and buried her face into his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

It felt like they were flying through space and time for hours, as she held a white-knuckle grip onto him, her face now buried into his neck. She hated portkeys, and hated anything that felt like flying, and she was sure a few “colourful” phrases left her mouth during the duration of the trip, when suddenly it ended, and instead of slamming into the group of their destination, Tom used some quick spell work that had them float for a moment, allowing them to regain their footing.

As soon as she was on something level, she smacked him in the shoulder, and pointed at him, already in lecture mode.

“Warn me next time, will yo-...” she trailed off, looking around her, not even caring that his hand was still on her hip, it didn't matter, because she was looking at the sunrise from the top of St. Louis Cathedral in Fort-de-France, right on the balcony outside the bell tower.

If she looked to her left, she could see the sun's rays bouncing off the roof of the Bibliothèque Schœlcher, and if she looked down she could see the water glistening from those same rays in the green copper fountain in the courtyard. She gazed at the sun rising in the East, tears blurring her eyes as the brightness outlined the giant leaves of the palm trees in the distance.

She said nothing, only continued to enjoy the moment, all her anger at Tom momentarily dissipated, because she was home, and it was the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

The tensions from the last two and half years just melted away at that moment, until the sun was fully up in the sky, where she finally turned to Tom, while wiping the tear tracks from her face with the back of her hand, and he watched from his stance leaning against the shutters of the bell tower.

“You brought me home,” she started, her voice still a little wobbly and cracked from her onslaught of emotion she'd just experienced. He straightened himself and stepped towards her, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her face properly, while his other hand cupped her chin gently.

“Happy birthday, Hermione,” he spoke softly, and she reached up onto her toes and kissed his cheek, as she had last year when he'd given her his gift then. It was what confused her about him, he could be so charming and thoughtful in one instance, and the next become this malevolent force of nature, and she didn't know what to believe.

“Thank you, this is wonderful, truly,” she replied earnestly, she was, of course, still unbelievably angry with him for the wards, but she'd give him a pass for the day. She didn't want to spoil her experience of being home for the first time in three years with a surly Tom. The first thing she wanted to do was go see her papa, but she looked down at herself and at Tom and plucked at his robes. The morning was still a bit cool, but it would be very soon that it would become unbearably warm and they would risk heatstroke in the robes they were wearing now, not to mention they would certainly stand out.

“Our robes are not appropriate for this climate,” she murmured, tapping her lip, wondering if the shopping stalls in the magical district would be open yet.

“Trying to get my robes off Miss Granger-Riddle? How inappropriate,” he joked, and she sent her nastiest glare at him.

“You're infuriating,” she shot back, holding out her hand for him to take, and apparating them around the block to Parc La Savane, to the statue of Joséphine de Beauharnais, which acted as an entrance to Fort-de-France magical commerce square.

Hermione sneered at the statue, the subject in question had been Napoleon's wife, a wealthy daughter of a plantation owner, born and raised here in Martinique, whose father had owned over three hundred slaves. She was also said to be the one who convinced her husband to reestablish slavery in 1802 after it had originally been abolished in 1794. She personally thought the statue would look much better without a head, but refrained on the urge, knowing it would bring unwanted non-magique attention to the only entrance to the magical commerce.

So, instead, she walked up to the bottom of the statue and looking around to make sure there were no witnesses, tapped the heads on the copper relief plate, causing the whole face of the platform to open up like a door, that changed the idle park into a busy shopping market.

It was vastly different than Diagon Alley with its tall brickwork buildings and muted earth colours, because here, every building was a pop of colour, but most shops sold their wares outside under open-walled tents and on tables, and despite the early hour, the market was already bustling. Hermione had only ever been here a handful of times, mostly after the age of fourteen, because she'd never had anyone point it out before, until she found out her Ancient Runes professor in third year at Beauxbatons had also been a Martiniquais, like herself, and especially because she'd been escorted to Toulouse, France each year to purchase her school supplies.

Some tables had charmed jewellery, others with spices and the daily catch of fish, as well as other produce, it was like a labyrinth of tables and stalls, she could hear people bartering in French and Martinican Creole, as well as the sound of sizzling barbecue from street food vendors. She pulled up to one of the tents that had light cotton clothing hanging along the sides of the tent, she picked a simple cotton wrap dress for herself, though she kept her boots, and looked at Tom critically trying to gauge his size before purchasing a light long sleeve cotton tunic and trousers to match, all white, just to spite him, because he wore too much dark clothing.

She paid the shop owner, and ignored Tom's smugly amused expression upon the fact that she was essentially dressing him, unwilling to feed his ego, she simply told herself she just didn't want them to look out of place.

They went to a more closed off alley to change, casting a disillusionment charm on themselves for further privacy (though she got Tom to turn away regardless because she didn't trust him any further than she could throw him).

Bundling up their robes and clothes, before shrinking them and tucking them away in her small purple sequined bag, she led him to where she smelled the street food, finding and purchasing skewers of grilled swordfish, with spicy mango salsa to dip in the corner of the cardboard box, she offered him some.

“What is this?” he asked, as she led him around the market, nibbling on a skewer.

“Swordfish,” she answered, covering her mouth with her hand because she was also still chewing. Her maman had certainly raised her better, but she was also not here right now, so Hermione took joy in acting as unladylike as possible. Tom hummed in response, barely reacting to the spicy salsa.

“I've never considered that you could eat a swordfish, I categorized them like sharks in the aspect,” he responded, leaning forward to not dirty his white clothes while eating, and Hermione held in a huff of laughter over both the fact that people definitely ate sharks, and that it just went to show that there wasn't a soul on earth who could make eating street food look elegant, not even Tom Riddle.

They wandered around the market place a bit longer, and Hermione may or may not have purchased three cases of mangues, casting both a stasis and impervious charm on them before storing them in her bag, which Tom raised an eyebrow when she entered her arm up to her armpit to grab her money purse. After purchasing a few more things, like a couple of years supply of spices, potion ingredients and few magical instruments, she stopped by the last stall she needed and purchased the biggest bouquet of white lilies they had, but also adding gladioli, and a single orchid.

Her mother, being the posh Englishwoman she's always been, had taught her the language of flowers early on her life, and clearly Tom knew about it too, because he took one look at the flowers she'd picked, and seemed to clue in where she wanted to go. White lilies symbolized a departed soul and hope for the renewal process, gladioli for mourning someone who displayed strength and character in life, and the single orchid essentially said “I will always love you.”. She paid for her purchase, and they left the commerce square, and she held out her hand for him to take, before apparating them to Cimitière Sainte-Thérèse.

She apparated them to behind a small mausoleum so that hopefully no one would see them, before leading him through the rows of graves, making her way to the one she knew like the back of her hand. After another minute, she stood in front of the one she was looking for:

_Ici repose_

_Antoine Tierri Granger_

_Octobre 23 rd, 1892 – Juillet 12th, 1938_

_Mari aimé . Père aimé_

_Ami à tous, étranger à aucun_

Looking around to make sure no one was around, she waved her wand to clear his headstone of dust and debris, and she was about to try and get rid of the weeds, but Tom beat her to it, with a wave of his wand, the ground around the headstone was healthy and trimmed, she thanked him, before kneeling on the ground. She pressed a kiss to her fingers and pressed them to his name on the marble slab, laying her flowers down on the ground in front.

“Bonjour, papa,” she began, feeling awfully guilty that she hadn't said goodbye before they left Martinique, or that it took her this long to visit, “Je suis désolé d'avoir mis si longtemps à venir te rendre visite,” she continued, wry smile making it's way to her face.  
  


“Il est Tom, il est de la famille du côté de maman,” she spoke, nodding her head in Tom's direction.

She sat there for a couple of more minutes, describing the last three years to her papa, and Tom stayed silent, leaning against one of the other headstones, she had lectured him about it, but he just shrugged. Finally, when she said all that she could think of, she pressed another kiss to her fingers and pressed it against his name, promising to come back soon, before she held out her hand for Tom to take and apparated them back to St. Louis Cathedral.

They still had a good four hours until the port key was scheduled to activate again, so she led the way through the streets towards her old home, turning onto Rue Victor Schœlcher, while she explained the many sights and historical contexts of buildings, and landmarks, pointing out places where she did something or another as a child. Turning onto Rue Lamartine, she stopped in front of a boarded-up doctor's office, and she gazed at it sadly for a moment, before walking herself through the narrow passage beside the building, to the back where a small square courtyard in front of an equally small two-story house was crammed in between the surrounding buildings.

This had been her home for her entire life, up until that awful day in February 1943. The walls were painted a, now chipped, bright yellow, while the shutters and roof were a cheery orange. The small garden box shoved off to the side, that her maman had been so proud of, was overrun with weeds, and the brickwork of the courtyard also had plant life springing from in between cracks.

“This is where I grew up, my home,” she spoke softly, unsure of whether she should go in or not, she'd cast a bunch of stasis charms on the inside before they left, but that had been three years ago, and she wasn't sure if they'd have held. Tom gave a noncommittal hum and glanced at her.

“Do you want to go in?” he asked, and she hugged her arms around herself and looked around. When would be the next time she would find herself here? Who was to say the notice-me-not charms she placed around the house would fade, and the next time she came here, it would be another family with a little girl living here?

The thought turned her stomach, and she felt selfish for wanting to keep this area untouched, and just for herself, even though the idea of coming back to live here seemed more unlikely as the years passed.

She wasn't good at letting things go, it was why she was so confrontational, she could hold grudges forever, and it was why Kai's disappearance had felt like a bombarda directly to the gut, she didn't even want to say goodbye to her childhood home, how could she say goodbye to the man she? What? Loved? She wasn't sure if she'd been quite there yet, but she cared about him, gave her virginity to him, and had wanted to see him prosper.

This home held so many happy memories, but also, some sad ones, it's where her mamie passed away in her sleep when Hermione was ten, and where her papa had passed away when she was twelve. Her mind whirled through her thoughts, but she'd already made up her mind.

“Yes,” she answered, stepping forward, and with a flick of her wand, unlocked the door. Tom followed her in, but she wasn't paying attention to him, her eyes skimmed over the thick dust on the counters and tables, the paintings on the wall lining the stairs, the old couch with the knitted throw on it, it looked like a scene out of time, as they hadn't redecorated since the late 20s.

She turned and walked towards the stairs, only glancing at her parent's room, flinching when she remembered her nightmare, and proceeded to the room across. The room that had been her own, though she'd shared it with her mamie, as there had only been two bedrooms, until near the end of her life when she couldn't tackle the stairs anymore and her papa had had to move her mamie's bed down to the ground floor.

She entered her room, and it was just as she'd left it, they hadn't been able to take much when they left, only a few changes of clothes, some jewellery with sentimental value, like her mamie's pearl earrings she'd worn to Slughorn's Gala. She shivered again from the less than pleasant memory, despite the humidity inside the house.

Her small single bed was still made with a few stuffed animals on top, and there were a few books piled up on her nightstand. She reached for her old, worn copy of Frères Grimm fairy-tales, and opened the hardcover flap to see her shaky childish handwriting.

_'ce livre appartient à: Jeanne Hermione Granger.'_

Instead of feeling a happy, if not a bit sad, nostalgia of being here, all she felt was a hollow yearning for something that just seemed out of reach, she stared numbly at her younger self's writing, unsure of what it was that was wrong with her, she didn't even care to move as she felt Tom's warmth against her back.

“Jeanne?” he asked, running his hands up her arm gently, and she swallowed thickly, before answering.

“Mmm, my legal first name, as all first names of non-magical children are generally picked from a list of Catholic saints, parents generally had more freedom with the second given name, my maman was partial to Joan D'Arc, which would have been ironic, but my mamie's name was Jeanne-Antide, so it was close enough, and my middle name is an ode to the Greek Myth, Helen of Sparta, who had a daughter named Hermione, but also of Shakespeare's _A_ _Winter's Tale,_ who maman was a big fan of,” she replied, slightly rambling, flipping through the pages, trying not to think of the knot building low in her belly as he ran his fingers across her collarbone.

Why was she like this?

She let out a shuddering breath as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss against her jaw, she knew what he wanted, and she knew it would have only been a matter of time before he tried something again, but damn her that this wasn't the strongest thing she's felt, besides crushing hollowness and burning self-hatred, since Kai's disappearance.

What if she just gave in? Just this once? Would it satisfy her enough to keep going and living every day despite feeling like she was suffocating? Would it satisfy him so that maybe he could move on finally and find someone else? Or would it open Pandora's box that she'd never be able to close again? She didn't know the answer to any of these questions, but she decided she'd let her impulsivity lead her for now, and deal with the consequences later.

She placed the book down gently and turned in his arms to face him. Would she regret this? Probably. Would she hate herself? Well, she already did, so how much worse could it get, really?

This time, he waited, wanting her to make the first move, wanting her to decide on the act, rather than the last time where she'd been inebriated, though it still felt like she wasn't thinking any clearer now than she had then, despite her current sobriety.

She stood on her toes, wrapping her arms around his neck and shoulders, and pressed her lips to his own, giving him the permission he so clearly craved, and he took it enthusiastically. He grabbed her hips and hoisted her up so that she could wrap her legs around his hips, their mouths still attached to each other's, ravenous, her to actually feel something, and him, well, she wasn't too sure. He palmed his wand in one hand, he spelled the dust off the bed, while his other hand cupped her arse, before dropping her onto the bed on her back.

He reared back slightly, pulling at the ties that held her dress closed, before opening it and tracing a hand up to cup her naked breast, the dress having been too awkwardly styled to allow her to wear her clunky brassier, she'd had taken it off when she first changed. He looked down at her in absolute awe, pupils blown wide as he caressed a dark brown nipple with the rough padding of his thumb. She hissed out a low breath at how sensitive it felt, and his eyes shot from her body to her face, as if unbelieving that she was really there, before leaning down to kiss her again.

Both of his hands came up, playfully rolling her buds until they were hard between his fingers, causing her to let out a low whine between kisses, and he leaned further into her, letting her feel how hard he was against the inside of her thigh, a desperate gasp broke from her lips and she reached to drag his tunic up over his head, before running her hands down his sides and waist.

She then reached into his trousers and gently pulled him free, grasping and stroking him as he shuddered and buried his head in the crook of her neck. She rubbed his tip with the pad of her thumb and he let out a gasp, but she persisted, mystified to see him come undone for once.

His arms that had braced himself upon either side of her, grabbed the heels of her boots, pulling them off, unclipped her garter straps from her stockings, and pulled himself out of her grasp to slide her underwear off. Once that was done, he put her legs over his shoulders and held her hips down with both hands before attacking her cunt aggressively with his mouth.

She slapped a hand over her mouth to prevent a scream that almost ripped itself from her, especially when he brought a hand down to pump three fingers into her, all while nibbling and pulling at her clit gently with his teeth.

She watched as he then grabbed his wand in the hand that had been holding her hips, first, he cast the contraception charm, and then yanked her forward a bit more, she was confused until she felt a poke at her backside, and hearing a whisper of a cleansing charm, she cried out in shock when he moved his mouth there. She groaned low as he thrust his tongue in and out of her, mortified, before realizing it felt good, and that she actually couldn't wait anymore, so she pleaded with him.

“Please,” she whined, eyes screwed shut as her legs clasped on either side of his head, he didn't even pause as he responded against her puckered arse, causing her to release another keen whine.

“Please what? Use your words now,” he spoke, bringing his attention back to her abandoned clit, but not before sticking a single wet finger slowly into her arse, causing her to cry out at the new sensation, as he brought her to the edge before stopping.

“Tom!” she cried, one hand flying forward to bury itself in his hair, and she caught his eye from between her legs, his expression dancing with mischievousness.

“Please what, Hermione?”

“Oh God, you're insufferable, please just fuck me already,” she snapped, as he continued to edge her, causing her to see spots, and fill her with frustration.

“Well, why didn't you say so?” he asked, infuriatingly, before pulling himself up so that the head of his cock rested against her entrance, her hands travelling to grip at his hips to urge him in. He leaned forward and kissed her lips gently, before ramming into her with as much force as he could, and her arms flew from his hips to around his neck as he set a brutal pace, his hands gripping her hips tightly as he controlled her movements.

He was long and his tip smashed painfully against her cervix, but she couldn't get enough, groaning while biting at his shoulders and neck. Until he slammed himself in and changed their positions, rolling them over so that he was sitting up and settling her into his lap, still fully sheathed inside her, a position she recognized from new years, and she whimpered as the tip of him seemed to settle painfully against the opening of her cervix. He kissed and bit at her ear lobe, hands grasping at her hips as she immediately began grinding, and she released a guttural moan when he inserted a finger into her arse again.

“Come on, use my cock to find what you need,” he spoke clearly, and she could swear the vibrations from his voice alone sent her eyes rolling into the back of her head, but she obliged him all the same, and like new years, she brought one hand to grasp the back of his neck, the other around his bicep, as she ground herself down onto him desperately, her clit against his pelvis, searching for her climax.

It didn't take long, with the added sensation of his finger up her backside, she saw stars soon enough, though she continued to ride out her orgasm, clenching tightly on his length, he panted into her ear about how incredible she felt.

She leaned her forehead against his, but the look on his face was far from satisfied, then he pulled his finger out of her and gripped her hips, causing her to glance at him in confusion.

“If you think I am finished with you, you're mistaken,” he whispered savagely, as he pulled himself out and switched their positions, hauling her onto the bed and onto her knees, he knelt behind her, pressing her face into the mattress and pulling her arse up to meet his hips. She cried out in shock, not expecting it, but keened anyhow when he immediately went back to slamming into her, his balls slapped against her clit and thighs, coupled with the sounds of the bed frame smacking against the wall, she moaned at the lewd sounds around them.

She wanted to move onto her elbows, but he prevented her with one hand gripped her hip, and the other splayed flat between her shoulder blades, pushing her down, which, in this position, made her think she could feel him in her stomach, so she closed her eyes and bit her knuckle, rocking her hips back against him, searching for her own buildup.

She felt she was onto something when he picked up his pace, burying a hand in her hair, the ribbon that had held it together in a puff from this morning was strewn somewhere in the room by Tom himself, and so he pulled her up so that her back was flush with his front. One hand was pinching a nipple between his fingers, while his other hand had moved from her hip to her clit, applying pressure in circular motions.

“Fuck, Hermione.”

She came as soon as he spoke her name, her second orgasm ripped through her powerfully, and she cried out. She had always, rather shamefully, thought it was the biggest turn on about him, that he never shortened her name, and that he always spoke it with so much reverence.

His thrusts were brutal now as he reached his peak, and once it hit, she knew, as he stilled, and bit her shoulder, releasing everything he had into her, before continuing to pump slowly to ride out his finish.

As they evened their breathing, he continued to hold her taut against him, and he turned his head to press kisses along her jaw, cock still buried inside her. It was only then, with the fog of arousal and depression cleared from her mind, that it felt like an icy hand gripped her spine.

  
What had she done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact : the statue of Joséphine Beauharnais, in Fort-de-France, Martinique _was_ actually beheaded and painted with red blood in 1991, and since she was such a despicable figure, nobody fixed it and it's still like that to this day.
> 
> also, tom's eatin' good, i guess 
> 
> hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	25. Chapter 24 - Bolt Hole

Chapter 24 – Riddle Arms & Manufacturing – October 1st, 1945

Helen wandered through the main factory for Riddle Arms and Manufacturing in Leeds. Now that the war was over, she'd been needed to go through severance papers, reimbursements and bonuses for the women who had worked in the factory during the length of the war, as well as examine all remaining personnel.

Despite her donated contributions to the war, Riddle Arms had gained considerable monetary growth, and she had no problem paying her employees their due. She had also been working on creating a scholarship/bursary program in collaboration with Lady Margaret Hall in the University of Oxford for a total of five women applicants a year to attend on a full ride, sponsored entirely through Riddle Arms, for any woman who wished to apply for it going forward.

She had already discussed the technicality of it all with Tom, as per legal instructions, it needed to be ironclad, therefore needed the “heir” to sign off on it, which also ensured that it would continue even in the event of her untimely death and if Tom sold the company. Any financial gain of Riddle Arms would be directed to the program for a minimum of at least twenty-five years.

It had always been something she'd wanted to do since she'd come back to Britain, but the war had stayed her hand, it had been based on her own dream to attend Lady Margaret Hall when she was an adolescent. Her father, of course, would never have allowed it, his plan for her had been to marry her off as soon as they returned to Britain, as his worldview had been extremely sexist in regards to the capabilities of women.

When she lived in Martinique, she'd had a small pipe dream of Hermione making it to higher education, or if they moved to Britain, maybe her girl would go to Oxford one day. Of course, that had all been dashed when she'd been discovered to be a witch, though Helen was still proud of the path her daughter had taken.

All the same, she viewed it as proof, that although she could hardly be considered the perfect mother, her tendency to control the environment had become a detriment to her relationship with Hermione, she had at least raised an intelligent, compassionate and driven young woman.

Thinking of her daughter, she was heartbroken at their estrangement, though she knew, internally, that she had absolutely been in the wrong, and was to blame for the cavern that had grown between them, not Hermione. She had been so worried at the idea of her daughter dying, that she had betrayed her trust by supporting Tom's use of the wards. A small vindicated part of her whispered that she'd made the right decision, in light of Kai's disappearance, but the ethical side of her felt that she should have done something or tried harder to reason with her to stay, instead of allowing Tom to take control.

She exited the factory and approached the awaiting car, Henry, the driver stood outside holding the door open for her, so she nodded her head and entered to take her seat, directing him to take her home to Little Hangleton, and settled back for the long drive.

As it stood, she hadn't seen her daughter since Grindelwald's attack, and any letters she'd sent with Coco had returned unopened, until Hermione's birthday a couple of weeks ago, in which she'd received a letter from her, explaining how her actions had hurt her, and that she needed time still.

She also wrote that she'd been able to visit Martinique for the day, and had gone to visit her father and suffice to say, it had been that part of her letter that had broken her through the ignorance of her actions because up until then, she'd been upset that Hermione hadn't seen it her way.

Then she thought of how Antoine would have handled the situation and realized her error. Antoine would have gone with her, regardless that he had no magic, if he could not talk her out of it. He'd always had a ridiculous amount of bravery, while she'd always preferred to control the situation from the source. That was to say nothing of his undying need to do the right thing, always, but she supposed that that was where Hermione had inherited that trait from.

After receiving her daughter's letter, she backed off, stopped sending letters to her in hopes that she would answer, and just did as she'd asked, which was give her space. Though if Helen was honest, she'd found a small part of her own behaviour insulting, as while she'd been sending letters, ignoring the fact that she had been in the wrong, she'd simultaneously been on the receiving end of letters from Theodore, in fact since she'd ended their arrangement in May.

Once a week a letter would arrive, and sometimes she read it, and sometimes she didn't, but never did she reply. Some letters he raged at her, insulting everything about her, and others he would apologize for his behaviour, begging her to come back, and then there were some letters that weren't even legible, which led her to believe he'd written them while drunk.

She didn't understand the nature of obsession, and how a man could latch so fully onto the idea of a person, regardless of if those attentions were reciprocated. It made her believe, that somewhere in their lives, they'd come under the tragic impression that they were entitled to a woman's affections simply by having those affections themselves.

She thought of Tom, who no longer even lived at Riddle manor, at least, not while Hermione chose to stay away, and his perceived entitlement of her daughter, and of Seaborn, whose own apparent regard for herself ran a lot deeper than she'd initially been led to believe.

Antoine had exhibited the perfect amount of regard and respect, which is what had drawn her to him in the first place. He'd made his interest known, but left the decision up to her, mainly, at first due to their age difference, but also because he'd understood, clearly, the unfortunate perception and stereotype of a black man seeking the affections of a white woman.

She, of course, in all her privilege, hadn't noticed it at first, thinking him simply respectful (which though he was) but after fooling around with him a couple of years and constantly being approached by others, usually complete strangers, doubtful of her well-being, did she begin to clue in the risk he'd taken with her, and it had made her appreciate him all the more.

She watched idly as they passed through York, and curiously she felt she might need to go to the post office, but didn't understand why, as all of her mail was delivered to the manor, so ignoring the urge, she began to consider that she should write to Laura, since she hadn't heard from her since last year. She hoped that they were alright, and considered that maybe she'd make the trip to Italy to visit them now that the war was over, and perhaps if Hermione forgave her, she could join for the visit.

Tom, to her knowledge, hadn't acted out on any of his desires for her daughter, that she could tell, in months, and she had a small hope in her heart that perhaps he'd gotten over the infatuation?

It felt as if she was forgetting something important, but no matter how hard she tried to recall whatever it was, she just couldn't seem to grasp it.

When the care pulled down the drive of Riddle manor, the thought was gone from her mind, and as she exited the car, the butler, David, came to meet her.

“Ma'am, there is a Mr. Leonard Seaborn waiting for you in your office,” he told her, and she looked at him curiously.

“Leonard? Goodness, whatever for? Did he say, David?” she asked, and the butler looked worried, which didn't bode well, as he was a consummate gentleman and never so much as hinted to his opinion or thoughts on any matter. She pursed her lips and headed into the manor, Leonard was no older than fifteen, if he was here, would his father be close as well? Had something happened? She worried her hands while walking to her office, and met Annie, her maid, coming out of her room.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, and Annie just hummed noncommittally, before answering.

“I think you should see for yourself, Ma'am.”

So Helen shot her a worried look before walking into the office and Leonard was sitting facing the desk, she'd only met him a handful of times, and he always seemed to be a kind, polite boy, if not quiet and shy, but that could have just been his general manners.

“Leonard? How can I help you?” she asked, and he startled when he heard her voice, he turned to face her and she gasped, his normally light brown complexion was mottled with bruises, and his left eye was swollen shut, he shuffled in place, in his hands was a chunk of iced meat wrapped in a towel.

“Leonard, what happened to you?! Sit down, please,” she ordered him, alarmed, going up to touch his eye, but he flinched as she got closer, so she backed up and put some space in between them to make him feel more comfortable, her heart hurting at the sight of him.

“I apologize, ma'am, I didn't know where else to go, the police took one look at me and said I deserved it, but I remembered that you have a daughter like me, I can go, I don't mean to be a bother,” he rambled, his voice cracking, both for the onslaught of emotion and from the changes of puberty.

“It's alright, slow down, who did this to you?” she asked, gesturing at Annie at the door to bring tea and biscuits, who rushed off to do just that. As soon as she'd asked, though, he'd gone silent, which told Helen everything she needed to know about who was responsible.

“You don't have to tell me, instead, tell me, do you feel safe at home?” she asked gently, and Leonard hesitated for a moment, before shaking his head curtly, gripping his fists, and Helen frowned, it was clear that Theodore had done this to his own son, and her opinion of him immediately plummeted further. She lifted her hands in prayer motion against her nose, hooking her thumbs under her chin, and sighed, attempting to calm herself.

“And you already tried the police?” she asked, and he nodded, so she thought for a moment. Could this be a trap? Would she take this child in and help him? Only to walk right into some ploy of his father's? She mentally scoffed at the idea, her was not the type to come up with such a convoluted plan, but also, she'd never underestimated a potential threat before.

“Why come to me? Besides that my daughter is mixed race like you, that is,” she asked, she needed to make sure that what she would do would be because he genuinely needed help. Leonard looked away, before answering.

“My father talks about you, a lot. Normally when he's had too much to drink and is upset, so I reckoned that maybe you wouldn't turn me back if I came,” he responded slowly, looking at his hands, and her heart wrenched. This poor child, what type of life had he lived that even being the heir of such a wealthy man, made his so despondent and frightened?

She knew she'd already made up her mind when she saw his face, her maternal instincts kicking into high gear, regardless of whether this turned into a detriment for her. Annie came back with the tea and biscuits, as well as another slab of frozen meat, taking the older, slightly defrosted one from the boy. Helen turned her, a list of things that needed to be done running through her mind.

“Please ready one of the guest suites on the second floor, and please tell Head Butler Edward to call for a discreet medical professional to come to the manor,” she listed, and Leonard snapped his head up to look at her, his good eye widening.

“You will be staying here, for the time being, I will not tell your father, though it may get me in trouble, I believe you are safer if he doesn't know where you are,” she paused, making him a cup of tea, after also asking how he preferred it, “now, is there anyone you'd like to contact?” she asked, and he shook his head in negative, wincing at the bruise on the back of his neck.

She grimaced, he would definitely need to be looked over by a doctor, glad now that she'd called for one. She handed him his tea, and they drank in silence, and all she could think was:

  
What have I gotten myself into?

Alcazar Deslizan – October 10th, 1945

Tom leaned back in his seat at the front of the table in the large dining hall, and brought the tumbler of firewhiskey to his lips, his knights, inner circle and some newer members occupied every other seat at the table. To his right, he had Abraxas and to his left Orion, beside them were Thoros and Antonin, and furthermore Evan and Frederick. Bella and Rudolphous were beside Evan, while Terrence, Graham and Marcus were beside Frederick. Towards the end of the table were the newly graduated knights, Abraxas and Thoros' younger brothers, Draco and Theodore, with their classmates Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle.

There were certainly more than in his ranks than those present, but tonight was a night they were celebrating the initiation of the younger snakes, as well as celebrating the passing of the decriminalization bill. He grit his jaw lightly upon hearing Draco Malfoy's sneering voice, he talked a big game, but despite making it through his initiation, the boy was as sturdy as wet paper, it would take work to him to become nearly as competent as his brother. He could not understand why he could not be quiet and tactful, like Theodore, a weedy looking boy who held intelligence in his eyes.

They had succeeded in their goal to decriminalize certain “dark” magicks, such as ritualistic magic, blood magic, and sex magic, and though they'd failed to convince enough to add necromancy to that list, Tom didn't personally see it as much of a loss, as anyone who was truly looking to practice necromancy anyhow, would hardly give a fig about legality.

The traditional party had been chomping to decriminalize the majority of these magicks for almost ten years, back when they'd been banned back in 1936, and it had been one of the first things he'd promised to put his ten votes as Lord Slytherin towards, and he was, if anything, a man of his word. He was broken out of his reverie once more by the younger Malfoy's voice from down the table.

“I've been saying since the war is over, all these mudbloods that came to Britain should go back to where they came from, we don't need any more dirty blood than we've already got,” he huffed, sounding like a broken record of pureblood supremacy rhetoric, “we helped house them in their time of need, I don't see a reason why they're sticking around, taking our careers, diluting our lines when it's safe for them to go back home now,” he continued, and Tom really didn't care to speak up, as he could see many of his knights nodding their heads in agreement, except for his inner circle, who just observed casually in between their own personal conversations.

The eradication of muggleborns was another talking point by the more fanatic of the Traditional Party, but it was one he made no promises on, solely on the fact that no one in their right mind would vote for it, not with the Wizengamot evenly divided between Progressive, Swing and Traditional, the majority of the later party hardly caring for the actual existence of muggleborns, especially now that he was Lord Slytherin.

This was because, the Progressive Party, in its origins, was based on moving forward to match the muggles in innovation and technology, which was all well and good, nobody would bemoan the creation of modern indoor plumbing, the problem was that the Progressives also meant to leave traditional values and observances to become more palatable for those of muggle heritage.

Quite like they had done in '36 with the decriminalization of magicks that many families still used day today, and usually for innocuous and innocent reasons, another prime example of the erasure of their culture was the Hogwarts bill that was being passed around recently, to include the celebration of Halloween, Christmas and Easter instead of Samhain, Yule, and Beltane. He already knew even without his vote that it would be a ridiculous bill to pass, as Christianity was not even the main religion of muggle raised students, and it was tone-deaf (at least to Tom) to suggest that it was, especially after the number of muggleborns that fled to the UK of the Jewish faith.

Politics in the wizarding world was a delicate game of give and take, you had to give a little to take a little, otherwise, you would have wars and revolts on your hands (though once upon a time, before Helen and Hermione, that had been exactly Tom's plan). The only ones that wanted an eradication of muggleborns were the fanatical families, which notoriously included the Blacks, with the exception of Orion and his immediate family, who didn't seem to care, the Lestranges, the Carrows, and formerly, the Gaunts.

Though Tom was a Gaunt in all but name, having taken on the Slytherin name instead, he could hardly be considered a fanatic now, especially after finding out the secret of Slytherin, but mostly because he himself, was a half-blood, so that rhetoric was detrimental to himself, not to mention the direction of his tastes in recent years, which specifically included a plucky muggleborn with brown skin, eyes, and woolly coils for hair.

He thought of her for a moment, so as to not get caught up in his thoughts in the company of his knights, his plan for her birthday had turned to his favour far more than he'd initially imagined, and he'd made sure to immediately take the memory from his mind to relive it often.

It was moments like these that he blessed magic and all its uses, otherwise, he would have never been blessed with watching all of her expressions, or the delicious sight of his cum dripping out of her when he'd removed himself. He took the memory of his seed running down the inside of her warm brown thigh to cozy his nights, regardless of her obvious regret of their activities, if her little tantrum of ignoring him was anything to go by.

Was it how he'd pictured his first time with her? No, and he'd certainly been annoyed that he'd been limited to the amount of time left of the portkey, but it was satisfactory in other ways. The idea that he'd fucked her in her childhood room full of happy memories, no doubt tarnishing her memory of her home, made that beast in his chest purr in delight, though if it _had_ been up to him, she wouldn't have left his bed for hours, never mind having the ability to walk afterwards.

Orion turned to him, effectively ending his, rather pleasant, train of thought, and he nodded to him in acknowledgement. The other boy was, as usual, cool as a cucumber, silver eyes dauntless, with delicate features that gave him a generally non-threatening countenance, but Tom knew better. Orion Black was a wizard with a mind that was an amalgam of hundreds of different plots all running simultaneously, to the point that even Tom couldn't tell if he had personal aspirations or interests, and if he did, he kept them close to his chest.

Tom didn't care, either way, so long as Orion continued to support him, he could keep his personal life as personal as he pleased.

“Your muggleborn if building a bill to eventually bring to the Wizengamot,” he spoke lowly, so as to not be overheard, and Tom quirked an eyebrow, ignoring the deliberate use of the possessive article. He'd already assumed that his regard would have been deduced by the other wizard, as he just seemed to know things that even the most erudite would balk at, case in point as proof.

He didn't know how he obtained his information, and with Orion, he rather doubted he'd ever will, as there has always been something off about the boy, he felt that it was better to let him keep his secrets so long as they didn't affect him negatively.

He inclined his head minutely, and decided to take the bait, it was not, after all, often that the other wizard brought up specific topics to him unprompted.

“What type of bill?” he asked, tone low, leaning his chin into his hand, and arranging his fingers just so, which disguised his response to anybody looking at him.

“Elves,” he responded shortly, and Tom hummed in acknowledgement, it was certainly something he'd expected of her, just perhaps not so soon, as she still had another year of her internship with Madam Euphemia Potter, as well as her W.O.M.B.A.T exams, until she became a fully registered barrister. He, himself, still had another year of apprenticeship with the Department of Mysteries, and then he'd need to take his exams as well to officially become an Unspeakable.

“I see, thank you for bringing it to my attention, but you don't bring this information freely, do you?” he asked, knowing well how Slytherins worked.

“No, if she brings it to the Wizengamot, I want you to vote in favour,” he replied lightly as if he hadn't just dropped one of the biggest head-scratchers of their friendship.

“That is a large order for some information, do you want to use one of your favours?” he asked, and Orion was silent for a moment, as if considering it, before nodding.

Tom considered his words, he'd told him what he wanted in exchange for information and one of two favours drawn from him a year ago, the transaction was done at this point, and he would need to offer something else for an explanation, which Tom did not think was worth it. He still had one favour bound by magical oath to the other wizard, and Orion was too slippery a wizard to underestimate. Instead, he considered what he would have to do.

If Hermione brought a bill to the Wizengamot, he would be on the spotlight more than usual, and if he voted in favour, he would be seen as biased, regardless of nepotism being the oil of the UK magical world. It would take very careful planning and a delicate hand, because not voting in favour would be detrimental to him now because he'd be breaking a magical oath, not to mention it would destroy all progress he had with her.

“Very well,” he finished in acknowledgement, and Orion inclined his head in return before striking up a conversation with Thoros.

Quite honestly, he didn't care to have her completely unwilling, it wasn't as satisfying, in his opinion. He much preferred to manipulate he into wanting to be at his side, and in his bed (eventually, all good things take time) regardless of how it affected her well being. She was strong-willed and rather stubborn at some points, while cooperative and assenting at others, and it took a considerable amount of effort to lead her around by her logically based emotions, and if he, with the political power he held, sniped at her elf bill, she would undeniably double back on her own regard for him.

He took a sip from his drink, letting the burn slide down his throat, it was all coming together, he just had to move ever so carefully, because at the end of this long road were the ultimate prizes for all of his work, that being unlimited power, and immortality, and he would stop at nothing to obtain those. Hermione would be by side for all of it, whether she knew it now or not, he brought his hand up to play with the chain around his neck absentmindedly, Slytherin's locket warm against his chest under his robes.

Like power and immortality, she too was meant for him, of that he was certain. She belonged to him, and he'd take care of her, like he did all of his possessions, and she would see that in time, he'd make sure of it.

October 11th, 1945 – Bolt Hole

Hermione levitated dishes into the cupboard, before shrinking the box and placing it within a bigger one on the floor. The longer she'd stayed away from Riddle manor, the more her anxiety had grown at going back, especially after knowing what the wards could do, and not to mention her blunder on her birthday. She had stayed at the Burrow another two weeks before deciding it was time to get a flat of her own, and when she'd announced it to her friends, Jaismine had shown interest in becoming a roommate, and so, they found a three-bedroom in the building next door to the one that held Ron and Harry's flat, in Horizont Alley.

That was a few days ago, and they were still unpacking, they had mini quizzes and competitions on design, because they couldn't agree on wall colour, which is how they ended up with a black kitchen and a yellow sitting room. It looked a bit ridiculous, but it brought her a semblance of joy in her currently turbulent life.

They had decided on a three-bedroom, so that the third room could be converted into a joint office for both witches. Jaismine had plants everywhere, while Hermione had books everywhere, it was a chaotic mess, but she was optimistic in calling it home soon.

She was, despite all the new opportunities revealing themselves to her, still sad and heartbroken over everything that had happened recently, Kai has still not been found, and Detective Gamp was beginning to suggest that perhaps it was time to close the case, which was his polite attempt at telling them to admit to Kai's likely death. Both Madam Fawley and herself had balked at that, horrified that he'd even suggested it, as it had only been two months, but they knew, in the end, that they didn't really have much choice in the matter.

She found it insulting that none of Kai's half-siblings or father seemed to care that he was missing, his oldest brother even sneered down in her face, implying that “awful things happen to those who roll in the mud”, and it had taken every ounce of self-control not to hex him in his face. The hypocrisy of purebloods, Hector Fawley married a muggleborn for goodness sake! How could his son feel that way? It filled her with fury and indignation on Kai's behalf.

She was also saddened that the place and person she'd been safest with had turned out not to be so safe after all, despite Tom's presence and persistence, she hadn't actually been very afraid of Riddle manor, well, with the exception of that one time he'd kissed her, but he'd back off soon after.

More than anything, she missed her mother, she missed talking to her when something was wrong, she missed when she did her hair, and she missed generally being in her presence. She thought of all she'd done to keep her safe, particularly from Tom, the key to the post box in York sitting heavy in her purse, only for her to go and have wanton sex with him in her childhood bedroom.

That reminder of her less than stellar actions filled her with shame, had she become such a person that used sex as an escape? When a year ago she'd wanted to save herself for marriage? Every time she looked back, she almost could not recognize the person she'd been, if she looked at the present, she did not recognize the woman she'd become, and the future was entirely still in the air.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, the regret after having sex with Tom had hit her like a bludger immediately after they'd finished. She currently avoided speaking to him, because she didn't want to be faced with his smug amusement, a reminder that she'd fucked him because her self-loathing was simply that strong.

She was jostled out of her thoughts while putting new mugs away in another cupboard by a tapping on the window, she looked over to see her family owl, Coco, which was strange as her mother had backed off, respecting her wishes to take her own time to reach back out.

Curiously, she let Coco in, gently caressing her feathers as she took the letter for her beak, and opened it gently. Her eyebrows raised almost to her hairline at what she'd read, she decided then that she'd need a second opinion, so she went over to the floo, and knelt down, throwing a handful in, calling for Géraldine's flat, relieved when her friend's face appeared in the fire.

“Êtes-vous libre?” she asked, and at her friend's nod, they both stepped back so that she could go through, and quickly, she scribbled a note for Jaismine before stepping through the flames, carrying her mother's letter.

When she arrived, Géraldine was in the kitchen, wiping down some dishes while Jean-Pierre sat at the table colouring. She turned to her, her blonde hair piled messily upon her head in a bun, she tossed the rag onto the counter, before gesturing her to take a seat, both of them joining the little boy at the table.

“Qu-y a-t-il?” she asked, and Hermione just handed her mother's letter over, and she took it, face curious as she read it.

“C'est déjà arrivé?” she asked, and Géraldine shook her head.

“Non, pas à moi, mais on m'en a parlé,” she responded, and Hermione nodded, holding out her hand to take the letter, folding it again to smooth the edge. Her friend continued to explain what she'd learned while working at her placement, and it both saddened and infuriated them both. Hermione eventually left about a half-hour later, a solid plan between her and her friend, head swimming with emotions and thoughts, she ruffled Jean-Pierre's hair on her way to the floo.

Grabbing a handful of powder, for the first time in months, she called for Riddle manor and walked through.

When she entered her mother's office, there her mother sat at her desk, and in the seat across, the boy she'd written about, looking at her like she had three heads. She nodded a greeting to her mother before turning her attention to Leonard Seaborn, she walked to the chair next to him and sat down.

“You're Leonard, right?” she asked, starting up the conversation, and he blinked at her before stuttering.

“I'm sorry, but did you just come out of the fireplace?!” he asked slightly panicking, and Hermione nodded, shrugging like it was no big deal, in an effort to calm him. It seemed to work because his shoulders sagged, and he stopped fidgeting his hands.

“So magic _is_ real, and I actually have it?” he asked, mumbling in disbelief, and she nodded again, recalling the letter.

Her mother had written that she'd allowed Leonard to stay about a week ago because he hadn't been safe in his home anymore, but the next day, all of his injuries had disappeared, and at first, her mother had written it off, until a particularly emotional outburst from the teenager had shattered every glass in her office.

She'd asked in her letter if it was possible for nouveau-sang to “fall through the cracks” and since Hermione hadn't had enough knowledge on the matter, she'd gone to Géraldine, whose position in the Improper Use of Magic Office allowed her to understand how muggleborns were found in Britain. Usually, they were only found if they caused a scene in front of non-magical people, which there was a detection for, as protection of the Statute of Secrecy, but theoretically, if a muggleborn was never around another person during their bouts of accidental magic, then they were liable to be missed.

It confused her because in France, they had a register for magical births, it was how she was found by the French ministry all the way in Martinique, so she wondered why Britain didn't have something in place like that, but after Géraldine's sad look, Hermione understood immediately why, that being prejudice. Of course, the UK wouldn't care to find their muggleborns, leaving them to potentially hurt people from lack of control over their magic, she noted the cut on her mother's cheek, which was bandaged.

It was insidious, this poor boy, who was fifteen, should have been at Hogwarts for the last four years, and he hadn't been, instead, he'd had to face his powers alone and with no answers, mentally, she tacked on another potential bill to work on.

She explained all of this to Leonard, and he seemed relieved, though a bit sad that he'd missed out on such a huge opportunity, thanking her after telling her that he'd spent a lot of his life alone. Hermione was certain he should be okay now, Géraldine had agreed to process him through the system, and notify her superior and the Hogwarts headmaster, so that a magical-therapist could be found for the boy, who'd also work in conjunction with a tutor to catch him up. Since he was an October child, he would have been in fourth year, so maybe he'd be lucky enough to catch up in time to enroll for his fifth year, in time to take his O.W.Ls.

Afterwards, Leonard excused himself and Hermione turned to her mother, the silence and tension was palpable. Her mouth was dry and her eyes were burning, but it was her mother who broke first.

“I'm sorry, I acted out of line, I'm so sorry, can you ever forgive me?” her mother asked, voice repentant, eyes earnest with unshed tears, and her heart twisted, but she bit her lips together and nodded her head.

She could forgive her mother, but she wouldn't move back in, as she was too off-put by the wards, and her mother agreed. They sat together a bit longer, the silence tense, both women feeling that something had undeniably been broken, with no idea how to fix it to what it once was. Hermione soon stood and said her goodbyes for the night and headed back to her flat, feeling that familiar and pervasive hollowness in her chest.  
  


When she got home, she dragged her feet to her room, and sat atop her bed with her knees to her chest, and cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was rough, both in content and that it's more of a connector chapter for things to come.
> 
> My face claim for Orion Black is Kentaro Sakaguchi, and for Leonard Seaborn it's Stony Blyden.
> 
> rough translation:  
> "Are you free?"  
> "What is it?"  
> "Has this happened before?"  
> "No, not to me, but I have heard of it,"
> 
> Hope you enjoyed


	26. Chapter 25 - 'Antoine'

**Graphic scenes of violence in this chapter.**

Chapter 25 – Riddle Manor – November 17th, 1945

The last month would be an odd one for Hermione, though gratefully, she'd been able to fall into a routine. She'd wake up each day, more tired than when she'd gone to sleep, which had become a feature of her days, make coffee and tea for her and Jas, before donning her robes and heading to the firm for a couple of hours.

Kai's office had been permanently closed off, and our of respect for him, Madam Potter hadn't hired a replacement, which meant double the work for herself and Hermione, because the temp covering for Hetal's maternity leave was a rather slow worker.

After a shift, twice a week, she'd head to Riddle manor to check on Leo, and perhaps go through some of his homework with him, and if he didn't understand something, she'd help him work through it. He was an odd teenager, and it had been difficult at first to interact with him, he avoided eye contact, and sometimes would become unresponsive or distressed depending on the tone of voice she took with him.

She felt, however, that she should continue to try and help him, despite the challenge it posed for her, she was never a patient person, especially when dealing with, or explaining things to other people, it was one of her flaws she was very aware of. So much of her life had become negative in the last couple of years, that helping him felt like she was actually capable of actually putting out good in the world.

Of course, for her to even consider returning to Riddle manor at all, the wards would have to go, her anxiety at an all high every time she stepped foot in the manse. She'd contacted Tom to disable the wards, as she refused to be in the manor if he still had them running, she reasoned with him that the wars were over, neither she nor he lived there anymore, and therefore they weren't needed anymore, and reluctantly, he agreed and had disabled them.

Sometimes Tom stayed while she helped Leo, sometimes he didn't show at all. He'd usually send a lascivious smirk her way upon entering the room, which she'd promptly ignore, but as time continued to pass, it seemed like the events of her birthday were passed them. This was a relief because she disliked thinking about it, more so, since Kai was missing (she still didn't want to believe he was dead) it meant that she'd cheated on him, which fueled the ever-present miasma of self-loathing inside her.

Guiltily, a part of her wanted to move on desperately, to feel an ounce of happiness again, but a bigger part of her wanted her to suffer, that part of her felt like she deserved it for not doing enough, and so, she lived every day like there were weights around her ankles and wrists.

This inability to move through her guilt forced her eyes away, when Jas walked out of the washroom in nothing but a towel, with her locs piled up on her head, and her black skin practically gleaming from condensation from her shower. It was a sight that sent her mouth dry, and her heart in her throat, that she instantly felt ashamed of, because she'd agreed (to herself) that Jas was her friend, and it made her feel inherently predatory just by looking.

She still hadn't come to terms with her sexuality, she didn't understand how it was possible to be attracted to both men and women. Sometimes, she felt like she liked women, but that maybe her mind was fooled into thinking that her attraction to men was simply a by-product of being raised to believe that hetero-romantic relationships were normal and proper.

Then men like Ron, Kai, and even Tom came around and she was legitimately attracted to them as much as she found herself attracted to girls like Ginny and Jas. It was all so confusing, so she'd decided to keep putting it off of psychoanalyzing it, and perhaps one day it would make sense.

Today was a day like any other, she'd gone to the firm, used whatever minutes in between doing tasks for Madam Potter, to research her elf bill, which she'd began a month ago. Her side of the office apartment was covered in notes, and copied pages from books (because she couldn't bare to rip pages out), she'd even stolen some yarn from Jas to connect the topics with a sticking charm.

It was one thing that amused her, her friend was miss occult, and a (self-proclaimed) professional purveyor of all things horror and disturbing science fiction, and yet, she knitted as much as Mrs. Weasley, and that wasn't even mentioning that she'd named all of her plants, and insisted they were her children. She was certainly a bizarre witch, or that, Hermione was certain.

Now she sat with Leo, who was doing extremely well in his studies, having finally been cleared to own a wand two weeks ago, by his magical-therapist, and tutor. They were going through and categorizing potion ingredients on the first-year level, and she'd found out that if everything was placed in groups and lists, then the teenager had no issue with memorization. They'd been pairing off plant-like ingredients away from animal ingredients when her mother entered the room and watched them for a bit.

Her relationship with her was still complicated, and a bit tense, but Hermione felt, honestly, that they made actually be on the road to recovery, especially since she continued to give her the space she needed. She didn't think that they would get back to how they were before August, not for a long time, if at all, and that had been an agonizing reality to come to terms with, but Hermione was willing to work for what she could salvage.

She watched for a few minutes before there was a knock on the door, curiously she looked to see who it was, thinking it might have been Tom, but instead saw only the butler, David. Her mother closed the door, and she tried to strain her ears to listen through the door from her place across Leo on the couch, but couldn't make out what was being said. Eventually, she assumed something must have needed her attention, so she turned her own back to the place cards she'd made to help the boy.

  
It was only a half an hour before the heard loud cracks that sounded like fireworks, coming from inside the house.

Alcazar Deslizan – November 17th, 1945

Tom's day had been generally uninspired, he'd started it at the Department of Mysteries, which really wasn't much of an apprenticeship as it was simply assisting Unspeakables in experiments that he'd also found fascinating.

The whole culture of the DOM was an interesting one, hoods of robes were generally kept up while within the level, with a shrouding charm to protect their faces, and as apprentices, they were also given names to protect their identities, and it was only when one was a full unspeakable that they picked their own name.

His apprentice name was “Apprentice Grace,” and though it was a little feminine for his tastes, knowing it wasn't permanent was what allowed it to not bother him. Besides himself, and Shacklebolt (that he knew of), there were four other apprentices, two were admitted per graduating class, and one position was left open for potential transfers, or late applicants, and the apprenticeship itself was two years long.

Today, he'd been with Unspeakable Sole in the death chamber, a giant cavernous room that made Tom shudder, and furthermore, made his ring rattle slightly on his finger, which he assumed it was because it was the only horcrux he kept on him. He'd stood a safe distance away and took notes as the Unspeakable launched inanimate objects that were charmed to show artificial intelligence through the looming death portal. Truly, the majority of experiments led by Unspeakables were absolutely ridiculous, but he wasn't complaining, because it was easy, and it gave him unlimited access to studies on death itself, which considering his personal aversion to it, suited him quite well.

Afterwards, he'd then gone to have a late lunch with some of his knights at the Golden Realm restaurant, which had been informative, as apparently Grindelwald had finally been charged conclusively with a list of all crimes compiled by all the countries affected by his war. His magic had been blocked permanently and he would live out the rest of his days in the fortress of Nurmengard that he'd built, which was further motivation for Tom to not go start any wars.

He'd eventually gone back to Alcazar Deslizan, after deciding not to go to Riddle manor, he'd been yesterday anyhow, he'd began also giving that Leonard boy some advice, Tom had noticed that he was an apt study, and he was certain there was no harm in fostering a friendship with the teenager, his unique circumstances might help Tom with a future plan he was brainstorming.

It was a soon as he'd entered his entrance hall from his floo, that a bright light, flickering between an indiscernible shape, and that of some type of marsupial stopped in front of him. A Patronus, his mind supplied, as he studied it curiously for half a second, before it formed back into the shape of the animal again, this time opening its mouth, echoing a voice he was very familiar with, a cold fist gripping his gut at the cracking of her voice.

  
“Tom, come back, don't use the floo.”

Riddle Manor – November 17th, 1945

Helen walked into and leaned against the doorway of Hermione's sitting room, it had been a little over a month that Leo, as he liked to be called, had been staying with them, and Hermione had been visiting often to check on him and his progress, which she was glad for, as she had a feeling that otherwise, her daughter would rarely come to visit.

She watched from her place as her daughter patiently guided Leo through some homework with some place-cards, and from this angle, it almost looked like they could have been siblings. The thought twisted her heart because, for years, Antoine and she had debated on having another child, but something had always come up, or it just hadn't been the right time, until he passed away, and the idea had gone into the ground with him.

The longer Leo stayed with them, the more she noticed things about the boy that corroborated the tales he told of his upbringing. It had taken her some time to truly notice the pattern, but though he was incredibly polite and generally well-spoken, there were times he didn't respond to his name being called, or when he was excited about something then he couldn't control the volume of his voice, or he'd flap his hands before becoming self-conscious and sitting on them. There were times where he became fixated on something and wouldn't move for hours, even forgetting to come to eat at meals.

It wasn't necessarily bad, it was just different, more so that it was pretty telling that it was the reason for his neglectful upbringing. Besides, he'd taken to his lessons like a duck to water, which gave her hope for him, and he seemed to admire both Hermione, and (unfortunately) Tom, a great deal in the short time that he'd known them, but she didn't think that was an effect of his disability, but more an effect of his neglectful upbringing.

She heard a knock on the door at her back and saw her daughter lift her head. Their interactions had become a tiny bit easier in the last month, and it gave her hope that maybe they'd be okay. She could tell that Hermione was still hurting, she noticed how much weight her girl had lost, how her hair seemed dull, and the darker shades under her eyes some days, and she wanted to reach out to her, but didn't know how to without sacrificing the tiny amount of forgiveness she'd given her.

She opened the door to David, who inclined his head, and so she stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her.

“Ma'am, there is a Mr. Theodore Seaborn waiting in your office,” he spoke, and she tried to gauge his expression only to see nothing, which meant that Theodore had gone all the proper routes, by introducing himself to the butler first and requested her presence. She figured she may as well talk to him, if he was willing to be civil, especially considering she'd been housing his son for the last month.

She made her way to her office, deciding that she would inform Leo after the meeting, as she didn't want to worry the boy, but wrung her hands for a moment before getting a hold of herself and straightening her spine. She wouldn't allow him to make her nervous in her own home, he didn't have that power over her.

She stopped at her office door and took a deep breath before opening it and stepping in, signalling David to wait outside as a precaution. Theodore stood there, handsome as usual, and extremely well put together in his three-piece suit, hair combed back, and leaning against the side of her desk with her photo of Antoine, herself and Hermione in his hands, studying it. She closed the door and stepped forward cautiously, leaving enough room between them.

“Theodore,” she greeted coolly, remembering the state Leo had first come to her in, feeling fury build in her belly again in outrage. He quirked an eyebrow at her and set the photo down, and her hands followed his hands.

“Helen,” he responded, almost mockingly, and her eyes snapped back towards his face, and she suppressed a scowl.

“Why are you here, Theodore?” she sniped, crossing her arms over her chest and raising her chin. He huffed out a laugh.

“You look beautiful when you're angry,” he spoke softly, eyes taking in her form, and she felt rage curl in her chest and the absolute audacity of him, but then, the smile left his face and his eyes turned cold, surprising her.

“He's here, isn't he?” he asked, and his tone was frigid, as he stood straighter, folding his hands behind his back. Helen resisted a shudder, but stood strong, and worried about Leo, she lied.

“Who?” and he huffed out a laugh as if amused.

“It's no matter, I've already disowned him, he won't see a single shilling of my money ever again,” he spoke lightly, as if unbothered by his treatment of his own son.

“Why do you hate him so? He's a child!” she asked, outraged, and he let out a laugh of disbelief.

“Him? No, he isn't the one I hate, he's not the one who ruined my life,” he began, before bringing a hand forward, to run his hands through his hair, chuckling. Helen was frozen in place, words dying in her throat.

“What do you mean?” she asked, forcing the question out.

“Isn't it obvious? I had him because of you, because you wormed yourself so deep under my skin, for years, but then I had you, and I was foolish enough to think I could finally be happy,” he paused, wiping his finger against his bottom lip, “but then you left,” he finished, and Helen suddenly realizing that his whole presentation and act was a trap, and took a step back, but froze again when his other arm came around from behind his back, and she was staring at the barrel of a pistol.

His face was impassive, eyes shining in mock sympathy, as he cocked the hammer of the gun, his finger on the trigger.

“I think we could have been happy, but I suppose if we cannot be together here, I'm comforted that we'll be together on the other side,” his voice almost sounded repentant, and his eyes were shining, but Helen wasted no time, turning to dash for the door.

She heard the sound of the gun going off before she felt the pain in her back, she heard three more cracks, and couldn't tell if they'd hit her, only that she had been standing, and now she was on the floor. She could see the door to the office was open and David slumped against the frame, when had he come in? She couldn't feel her arms, and her legs felt terribly heavy, and there was a pervasive pain all over her back.

She focused on breathing, tears pooling in her eyes as she laid on her stomach, she felt wet, pain and numbness all at once, and she found she couldn't focus on anything, nor could she speak. She vaguely noticed Theodore rush passed her and close and lock the door, she closed her eyes, trying to focus on moving, even a little bit.

Everything was blurry when she opened her eyes, and she barely recognized that she wasn't on the floor anymore, she was in his lap, on the couch, and it hurt to breathe. There were bangs on the door, and more tears clouded her already blurry vision.

She didn't want to die, she wanted to live, she wanted to see her daughter grow, wanted to see her marry one day and have children of her own. There were black spots dancing in her vision and she felt like she was suffocating, almost certain her lungs were probably flooding with her own blood.

She felt him smooth her hair away before she opened her eyes again, and was once more staring at the barrel of the gun, pointed between her eyes. She closed them again, and thought of only one person, now that she was clearly going to die, she heard the click of the hammer and braced herself, her last thought before the gun cracked one last time, the loudest and last thing she'd ever hear.

'Antoine.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry? 
> 
> *phew* 
> 
> anyway, in case it was hard to tell, i wrote leo to be autistic
> 
> poor helen


	27. Chapter 26 - Long Time Traveller

**Slight description of corpses, gore, and smut in this chapter.**

Chapter 25 – Alcazar Deslizan – December 21st, 1945

In the great hall of Alcazar Deslizan, Tom had kicked off a proper Yule celebration in conjunction with his Knights for all the families of the wizarding world who wished to celebrate it.

It was the first day, and he would be holding the ongoing feast for twelve days, housing any who wished to join, a yule log burning constantly in each hearth that housed a guest (though those staying within the castle were all Sacred 28, as he wasn't completely daft to allow complete strangers to lay in his home).

The celebration stretched onto the grounds of the fortress, behind heavy muggle repelling and weather wards, where bonfires were lit and tents littered the area as families worked in tandem to support each other, lighting candles, dancing, eating, and telling stories.

All of this had only become possible with his ascension as Lord Slytherin, which caused a revival of interest in traditional observances, further than just relegating 'Yule' as an archaic term for 'Christmas', which is what it had become to many, even a few purebloods. Did he personally care for the thousands of witches and wizards around his home? No, but did it substantially elevate his image of trustworthiness among the population of the UK? Yes, and anybody in politics would tell you that a positive public perception was a necessity for any politician.

To him, the majority of this was an annoyance at best, but to Lord Slytherin? It was essential to foster that trust and good-faith, so that it may give him leeway for if / when any of his 'less-palatable' future ventures were implemented. Food was provided in plenty for all, music played through the grounds from various groups playing their instruments, and he purposely went around to greet celebrators, though his mind was distracted by the occupant up in his rooms.

Hermione had not been in the mood for celebration, not that he blamed her, of course, it was her first holiday since Helen's murder a scant month ago. He recalled that day with perfect clarity, after he'd received her Patronus, he'd apparated inside his rooms at Riddle manor, and as there hadn't been wards, he'd had to manually look for her. It hadn't taken long, because it was as soon as he left his rooms, that he saw the commotion of law enforcement and panicked members of staff on the ground floor. He'd walked through and passed them all as he'd headed to where Helen's office was, which seemed to be the focal point of the disturbance.

That is where he found her, sitting outside the door to the office, on the floor with her knees to her chest, eyes vacantly staring forward, face wet with tears. Across from her sat that Leonard lad, mimicking her pose, but with an expressionless face, as if he wasn't sure how to react to what was clearly a tragic situation. Detectives and bobbies were entering in and out of the office, and Tom had already an idea of what he'd find, and when he'd managed to slide himself to the ajar doorway to confirm, unfortunately, he was not disappointed. A bobby had tried to push his shoulder to prevent him from witnessing the carnage, but it had been too late, as he'd gotten a full view of the perversion on display.

Tom leaned back, swirling his drink in his cup, as a particularly loud laugh from one of the tables in the hall broke him from his reverie. He'd always known there was something different and completely warped about himself in comparison to his peers, regardless of where he was because the sight of the gross imitation of Michaelangelo's Pietà, except with the corpses of Seaborn and Helen had stirred nothing in his chest.

He recalled the starburst of blood and brains on the wall behind Seaborn's slumped head, the bullet hole between Helen's closed eyes, and her white blouse that was stained red but that he felt more disturbance from his own lack of reaction, than of the scene itself. After being questioned by authorities, he took the catatonic Hermione and the uncertain Leonard back to Alcazar Deslizan, his mind already working on ways to spin Helen's murder in his favour.

The following month had been a busy one, suffice to say, he'd had to take the lead in settling all Riddle affairs, though he'd managed to wrangle two requests out of an almost mute Hermione. One was that she wanted her mother buried alongside her father in Martinique, which he'd complied and made arrangements, and second, was to not sell Riddle manor. So, he obliged again, instead, taking a note out of Hermione's book and placing the manor under a stasis after laying off the staff, but paying them a year's wages on their way out.

For the first few weeks, Hermione had been in a state of cognitive dissonance, relying on him heavily (not that he minded) while she settled. She never made mention of her thoughts on being brought to Slytherin Castle, or even staying here, and slowly, she started coming back to reality that grief had shrouded her from, it has been some four weeks since Helen's death and Hermione had asked this morning to visit her grave, so he'd made arrangements for tomorrow, but not once had she demanded to leave.

Tom theorized that in the face of trauma, Hermione unconsciously clung to him in hopes that familiarity would stabilize her grief, and he was absolutely not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. She'd generally spent the month in a daze of sleeping all hours of the day, barely eating or speaking, though he'd made a note to monitor her food intake to make sure she ate enough, there was nothing he could do to get her to speak. She didn't go help Leo study, the boy staying in the castle as well, as Tom had decided to sponsor him while he finished his education, to prevent him from being tossed into an orphanage, though he mostly did that because he still considered the boy to be an opportunity to exploit in the future; and she hadn't been able to even write about her mother's death, not even to notify her friends or internship placement.

Tom had done all of that, writing to the gaggle of Gryffindors she called friends, Shacklebolt, who was her roommate, and Madam Euphemia Potter, her boss. The influx of condolences and friends demanding to see her had been swift, but seeing as she hadn't gotten out of bed in weeks, he'd denied them, insisting instead that they write her, which he honestly preferred anyhow.

It had been a week ago that she'd begun to slowly come of her shell, leaving her room to peruse his library (when he'd told her about it, it was the first time he'd seen a light in her eyes in weeks), and attempt to work on her elf bill, but as the holidays approached closer, she withdrew once more.

He looked around, the hour was getting late, and though it was only nine in the evening, people were out of their seats and some were becoming inebriated, while others were leaving the hall to join the festivities outside. He decided it was time to check on his witch, so he got up, and bidding the guests he passed polite nods and proper adieus, he made his way up the stairs, until he finally found himself on the seventh floor, where his suite (and Hermione's room) was.

Her room still had its own door to the hallway, but it was designed to look more like an afterthought, the main doorway being the one that connecting her room to his, and she hadn't even batted an eyelash when she discovered it. Though after the events of her birthday, she'd probably expected it, that or she just didn't care.

When he made it to his room, he headed towards the connecting door and opened it to find Hermione sitting on the desk he'd acquired for her, that he placed in front of the window. She was in her nightgown, barefoot, with her knees drawn to her chest, watching the festivities outside, and he could see the light of the bonfires down below leave a soft orange glow against her skin and hair, which was braided neatly against her scalp in rows.

She turned to look at him, and he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, before making his way to her. She turned her attention back to the window, and wrapped one arm under her legs, holding her thighs, and placed one hand on her knee, then her chin on that hand. Her nightgown only came to just above her knees, so her arm was holding the bottom up under her legs, which left her bare calves and skinny ankles on display, the light from the bonfires illuminating the soft hair on them.

He sat opposite of her, lifting one leg onto the desk, and leaning against the frame of the window, he traced one hand softly up and down her leg before pulling her ankles gently to bring her feet onto his lap. She complied, choosing instead to lean back on her arms, the movement causing the front of her nightgown to bubble, giving him ample view of her chest, and he watched it rise with each of her soft inhales of breath.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, holding one of her feet and pressing his thumbs into her soles, watching satisfied as she closed her eyes in bliss. She swallowed, opened her eyes again, and shrugged, still watching outside. He turned his gaze from her, to look over his shoulder out the window, where he could see witches dancing around the fires, wizards playing fiddles, tin whistles and uilleann pipes, while children ran around, weaving their way in between them all, almost causing a witch with a bodhrán in her arms to trip.

“You can come down and join the celebration, even if it isn't Catholic,” he murmured, and she shook her head slightly, burrowing her chin onto her shoulder. The bump in the nightgown growing with the movement, causing his mouth to dry at the sight of the swell of her breast. The fact that she still had this effect on him, even now, by doing the bare minimum, amazed him, and as he brought his gaze back up to her face, he found that she was watching him, and had caught his blunder. He decided to lean into it, rather than play it off, so, gently pulling her ankles, he slid her towards him on the desk until the backs of her thighs were touching the top of his. He let her knees fold and hung her calves over the other side of his lap, as he skimmed his fingers gently from her knee and up her thigh, agonizingly slow until his hand was at the apex of her thighs.

He caressed her gently through the fabric of her knickers and watched fascinated as the pupils of her eyes became wider, drowning out the warm embers reflected from the bonfires outside, and her breathing staggered slightly. He applied a bit more pressure to her nub and watched her lips part in a small gasp until he placed his thumb there to hold the pressure, while he slid his middle and pointer finger downwards so that they were just outside her entrance, which had become rather damp through the fabric.

The slow moan that he dragged out of her with that move, seemed to vibrate up his arm and head straight for his cock, which was just about waking up under his robes. He began small circular motions, and she attempted to move her hips with his hand, her chin now titled up and her eyes glazed, and she let out a little cry when he pulled his hand away, eyes snapping back to his.

“What do you want?” he asked lowly, while she tried to gain control of her breathing. She licked her lips to wet them, waiting a beat before raising her right leg off of his lap, and placing it on the window sill behind him. She then leaned back on one arm and brought the other forward to drag the hem of her nightgown up, slowly sliding her hand down her knickers and she began to fondle herself, her eyes never leaving his.

He felt his heart rate rise as he watched the outlines of her fingers move through the fabric of her knickers, sliding until there was no more bump, meaning she was well inside herself now. She watched him, as he watched her fingers thrust slow and deliberately so that he could see as much as he could, and he could confidently say, that of all the partners he'd ever had, nothing he'd done with any of them had come close to the sheer eroticism and intimacy of this moment.

His breath shuddered when he heard the slick squelch of her fingers as she pulled them free before she brought her hand out and stretched her arm to bring them to his lips, intending to wipe them there. He grabbed her wrist and opened his mouth instead, taking the digits entirely in, and running his tongue over them, cleaning them before gently pulling them out, and giving them one last lick before dropping her hand.

“I'll ask again, what do you want?” his voice was rough, still savouring the tangy taste of her on his tongue, and she ran her tongue over her teeth in her mouth, before answering.

“More.”

He stood up and turned to face her, and without fanfare, he dragged her hips forward, before sliding off her knickers and tossing them over his shoulder. He then kissed her lips gently as he ran his hands down her thighs to her knees before yanking her legs wide open and kneeling between them.

He didn't think he'd ever get tired of tasting her, as he dragged his tongue up from the entrance of her cunt, to the tip of her clit. She was salty and tangy, with a hint of musk, exactly what he'd imagined it would be like to live on a beach, he burrowed his nose in her hair and clit, inhaling her, and he ate her like he was starving. She panted and gasped above him, both hands in his hair as her nails scraped deliciously against his scalp, and he swore his eyes rolled back into his head, as he lapped up every bit of her wetness, while applying pressure with his nose on her nub as she gyrated her hips.

“Tom!” she gasped, and his hands moved from their grip on her thighs to the buttons on his robes, he was positively straining against his undergarments. His tongue was inside her and pressed up against her wall, moving back and forth when he finally undid all of his blasted buttons and yanking his robes off of his shoulders, he brought his hand back up to insert two fingers into her, while he directed his energy back to her clit. He edged her, taking cues from the bucking of her hips, and sucked on her nub once more before letting go and standing up, earning a cry of distress from her.

The bodhráns and fiddles were playing full volume down below as he ripped his briefs down his legs, releasing his wand and casting a quick contraceptive charm before tossing it towards the bed, he then grabbed the back of her knees to pull her forward to line himself up. He kissed her, and with one swift move, he slammed into her, swallowing her cry with his mouth, holding her hips still while he built a steady pace. Within a minute, she ripped his hands off her hips and broke their kiss to lean back, dragging her legs higher until her ankles rested on his shoulders.

He squeezed his eyes shut as she began clenching on him, his mouth open in the ecstasy that this position was bringing him, he was positive that nothing had ever felt so good in his entire life than his witch's tight cunt squeezing the life out of him. Her hands had released his, and he brought them up to hold her thighs, forcing her hips to meet his thrusts as her own hand pressed circular motions on her clit, supporting herself by leaning back with her other arm.

He felt his rising climax and picked up his pace, almost losing all of his composure when her entire body tightened and shuddered around him as she came, causing her to let out a long groan, her voice vibrating through her entire body, which finally allowed him to finish, and finish hard.

He stilled, holding her hips against him so that he was still fully sheathed inside her, waiting the long seconds as he emptied himself. He panted and opened his eyes, to find her observing him with that irresistible cat-like gaze of hers. Without detaching himself, he pulled her up and carried her to the bed, only then sliding his soft cock out carefully as he tucked her in, sliding himself up behind her under the covers after removing her nightgown and tossing it beside the bed. He pulled her against him and wrapped an arm around her waist, and closing his eyes, he felt at peace sleeping with her form warming him.

Alcazar Deslizan – December 22nd, 1945

When Hermione groggily came back to the land of the conscious, all she knew was the bright sun on her face through the window, the weight of Tom's arms around her waist and the pervasive hard length of his erection against her lower back. She closed her eyes again and buried her face into the pillow, the last month had been hellish for her, more so than when Kai disappeared. When her mother was murdered, the whole world had instantly crashed down on her, and her support line in this country that was her maman, was gone, to which she'd floundered helplessly.

When she'd finally arrived at her maman's office to find blood splattered on the frame, with Edward, the head butler, and Henry, the driver, trying to kick down the door, the world officially stopped spinning, and she'd frozen. She stood there useless while Henry yelled at Annie to call the authorities, she stood there as her mother's maid rushed passed her, only breaking out of it when she heard another gunshot crack, followed closely by another.

She'd thrown herself at the door then, using her wand discreetly and muttering an _alohamora_ under her breath, finally allowing for it to bust open, only for her to trip over the body of David, the butler, on the way in, landing in a pool of blood a few steps ahead.

She felt Tom press his face into her shoulder, and tighten his arms around her, and she thought again back to that day, how Edward had helped her up from the floor, trying to block her view, but the damage had been done, and she'd seen her maman as she'd never wanted to. She remembered becoming hysterical, that she screamed so much her throat became hoarse, and she remembered Edward restraining her and physically carrying her out of the room as she clawed at his arms. He brought her to Annie, who came back, and ordered her to help her change her clothes, which were covered in what she was sure was her mother's blood.

It was then, after changing in her room, that she sent the Patronus to Tom, it had taken multiple tries because, at that moment, she hadn't been able to recall a single happy memory, but she'd persisted because she'd needed him, she'd needed his cool-headedness, his familiarity, and the stability of his presence. If anyone asked her, she would not be able to answer when it had happened, exactly, that he'd become such a constant in her life, that in a moment of trauma, his was the only dependable face she could conjure, but she'd done it, and she'd been grateful because he'd come and he'd helped her.

As for last night, she supposed it was in part to thank him and in part her needing distraction and comfort. It was going to be her first Christmas without her mother, and the celebrations happening around the castle had felt like needles in her eyes, that when he placed his hands on her, it had been a beacon to ignore everything else. When he'd first brought her to Slytherin Castle, she'd assumed that it would be the end of her freedom, and a part of her hadn't even cared anymore, because her mother was dead, and all she had was him, but he had surprised her.

She'd been generally left to her own devices, able to leave her room when she wanted (not that she did) and hadn't even attempted his regular innuendos, going so far as to care for the preparations of her mother's burial, and the treatment of Riddle manor, acting only on her suggestions.

Could they be subtle manipulations to make himself seem better than he was, to trick her into trusting him? Of that, she had no doubt, but damn her because it was working. When he'd brought her to bed last night, she'd stayed awake briefly thinking over her situation, she'd left his arms to take care of her business in the washroom, wrapping her head in its scarf, debating internally on whether to rejoin him in bed, only to come to the conclusion that she didn't actually care. She'd climbed back in, sliding herself back into his arms, and for once, slept without being plagued by nightmares.

She was brought out of her thoughts as she felt his hands trail lower, as he pressed light kisses to the back of her neck, and from behind, he angled his hips so that the tip of him was prodding at her entrance lazily. He moved his hips so that only the tip was inside her, and she moaned lowly by the promise of it. His arm was in the divot of her waist and mattress, his hand slowly dragging itself down her belly, digging them in-between her thighs, playing with her as he began lazy, shallow thrusts.

She rocked her hips back onto him, one hand gripping the pillow by her head, and the other reaching back to grip at his hip, urging him to go deeper, but he infuriatingly kept the slow, light pace, sending her absolutely up the wall. He kissed his way up to her ear, and whispered, voice still raspy from sleep.

“Lay on your stomach and open your legs.”

She complied, and he moved to brace himself up on his arms on either side of her, thrusting into her with swooping motion of his hips, almost as if he was hooking himself into her, hitting a spot in her that made her see white.

It was like a live wire, and she gasped, biting the pillow as she spread her legs further and bent her knees so that they hooked around his own, her pelvis pressed against the bed. It only took a few more jabs in this position before she came, and she buried her face into the pillow to muffle her cry, while he continued lazily pumping until he rammed in one last time and stilled, spilling himself into her.

She turned her face out of the pillow and watched as he removed himself, and lean back to admire his work, using his finger to try and push his cum back into her. She whimpered when she felt him prod at her backside again, and she watched as he summoned his wand to his hand, casting a contraceptive charm again, before sliding his wand up her crack, whispering a cleaning charm, and then another charm where she suddenly felt incredibly damp, as if she'd had lubrication serum inside her. He pumped himself until he was erect again, before he made eye contact with her and slowly, so very slowly inserting himself into her other hole.

She gave out a choked cry because it hurt, and he stilled, whispering in her ear to push. She felt embarrassed by the action, but she did, groaning lowly as he moved in and out of her before his pace picked up again, and she was whimpering and biting the pillow, angling her hip higher for better movement. He was grunting and panting over her, biting and nipping at her shoulder, kissing her jaw while her gripped her hips and fucked her into the mattress.

“This is where I belong, in you, all of you, always,” he panted, and he kept slamming into her, and she felt an entirely different tightness build. She slid one of her hands down to put more pressure on her clit, as his pace was almost violent now until something snapped and she came harder than she'd ever done before, he then pulled out and began pumping himself a few more times with his hand, spurting his seed all over her back. He knelt there, panting, and she strained to catch her breath, his cum was warm on her back still, which gave her a warm feeling in her belly. He laid beside her, and she sat up looking down on him and then over her shoulder, watching his finish slide down her skin as it wet the sheets, she then turned to look him up and down and noticed his soft member twitching, so she decided to return the favour from last night.

Hermione positioned herself at his hip, while he watched her like a hawk, his pale eyes black when he realized what she was about to do. She grasped the base of his shaft and stroked him slowly until he began to gain hardness again, she then looked right at him as she dragged her tongue along his length, popping the mushroom tip into her mouth, and swirling her tongue around the hole at the tip.

She watched as he let out a shuddering breath, and as he clenched his fist as it laid on the pillow above his head, while his abdominal muscles tightened. Satisfied that she was getting the reaction she wanted, she looked back down to concentrate on the task at hand. She began to stroke the bottom half of him with her hand, while her mouth thrust downward on the top half, tongue caressing every inch it could.

Tom's breathing was ragged at this point, but she kept going, bringing her hand up to caress his balls, which ripped the most satisfying noise from his mouth. She looked back up to see his mouth open, and eyes squeezed shut as he gripped the blanket beside him and the pillow by his head. She picked up her pace, before she removed her hand on his shaft and took his entire length into her mouth and down her throat, which seemed to do the trick, because, with a breathy gasp, he came, shooting his load right into her gut. She had to consciously hold back her gag reflex while trying to swallow, despite him still being lodged down her esophagus.

There were tears in her eyes when he finally finished, and she coughed as she pulled her head away, letting him fall limp across his thigh. She immediately slunk herself against him, exhausted, and he tucked her into his side, wiping her tears and whispering praises against her forehead. He pulled the blanket over the both of them, and she fell into an easy, light sleep, curled into him, his cheek against her forehead and his arms were tight and possessive around her waist.

Later that day – Cimetière de Sainte-Thérèse – Martinique

She sat on the ground, not on top of the grave, but a little more to the side, as the dirt was still a bit fresh from being dug up. Her nose was plugged from crying and Tom stood behind her, silent, as she'd rambled incoherently in French to her maman and papa, and after a while, she was silent, studying the headstone, which had been changed slightly to reflect both souls lying there now. She sniffled and wiped the tracks from her face, there was no epitaph, Tom had said he'd thought to leave it for her to fill, which she was grateful for. She tapped her wand, whispering _defodio_ to engrave the quote in between their names. She leaned back and studied it.

_Ici repose  
  
_

_Antoine Tierri Granger_

_et_

_Helen Sophia Granger  
  
_

_Octobre 23 rd, 1892 – Juillet 12th, 1938_

_Février 9 th, 1899 – Novembre 17th, 1945  
  
_

_Aim_ _é dans la vie . Indivis dans la mort_

She nodded approvingly, appreciating that 'Riddle' hadn't been added to her mother's name, as she knew she'd disdained it, and had been upset at the prospect of having to drop 'Granger' when they first left Martinique. It was a cursed name for them, in every aspect, her mother had died far too young a Riddle, and too many bad things had happened while Hermione held the name.

She wasn't certain, but she felt there must be some hereditary generational karma that she inherited with the name, from all the bad her mother's family had put into the world, and she was merely a recipient reaping the punishments. She mentally scoffed at that train of thought, it would make sense, even Tom had a bad lot in life up until he claimed his mother's heritage, because she'd had no doubt a part of him abandoned the 'Riddle' name in his heart of hearts, and that when he did, his fortunes changed. That, or perhaps she was looking for some higher power aside from God to blame for the cruel treatment they'd been dealt.

Her mother had done absolutely everything in her power to keep her safe, she crossed countries with her in the middle of a war, she'd killed, and even when they were 'safe' in Britain, she did not cease to make sure her life was so. She remembered the key in her bag and knew she should write to her mother's relatives to notify them of her passing, she grimaced at the task, having only written to that uncle once since she'd obliviated her mother of his involvement, to introduce herself. He was non-magique, so it wasn't like she could send a letter without an owl, not to mention, she wanted to respect her mother's wishes and keep that information from Tom.

Then there was Tom, how much of her suffering had actually been engineered by him? She wasn't blind, she'd known how badly he'd wanted her for over a year, but how many micro-manipulations did he have a hand in to bring her to his bed? She didn't know, but she was passed the guilt and shame for falling for it, as she already had those in spades for many other things, and this, whatever it was, was not the worst of her actions.

She felt guilt aplenty for Kai, guilt for not spending enough time with her mother in the last couple of months, shame that she'd indulged her anger and indignation to the point that they'd generally become estranged from the other, and guilt for being the one to demand Tom that he remove the wards.

No, her sleeping with Tom was not at the top of the list of things she needed to forgive herself for, of that she was sure. She liked to think she was going into, again, whatever they were doing, with an open mind, acknowledging that he was genuinely a terrible person that treated her well, and that _that_ was enough for her. Was it unbelievably selfish and shortsighted? Yes, did it bother her to a certain extent? Yes, also would she regret it at all? Highly likely, and was she going to do it anyway?

She turned her head to look at him, and his eyes were on her, and she knew, yes, she would continue, because she needed him. She could not have brought the death of her mother to her friends, despite how much she knew they cared about her, she acknowledged that she was not their priority, regardless of how much that fact hurt her. She needed support now, more than they'd ever have been able to give her, and she knew he would give it to her because though she didn't know how or why, she knew that she was a priority of his, so she was going to take advantage of it, and lean on him.

She held out her hand for him to take, marvelling minutely at their stark difference in complexion as he took her hand and helped her up. Once she was standing, she leaned into him, her forehead against his collar, and her arm wrapped loosely around his waist, allowing him to wrap an arm around her shoulders and rest his chin on one of her cornrows.

  
“Ready to go?” he asked, and she nodded against him.

  
“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god, today was such a shit show at work. it was so FUCKING BUSY FUCK. theres a mandatory mask rule announced by our mayor, but starb*cks is like 'you still cant turn customers away if they arent wearing a mask' despite it being a government mandate. in other news, im big mad.
> 
> my coworker said 'i dont need sex, starb*cks fucks me on the daily' and honestly i vibe hard with that, cause its fucking TRUE.
> 
> also, can ao3 STOP saying im spelling shit wrong when i use canadian/british spelling???? american spelling looks like its wrong to me, cause we're taught british spelling in schools, not to mention, french shit gets mixed in here too so I feel like im illiterate half the time.
> 
> anyway hope you all enjoyed the smut, and the rest of the chapter!


	28. Chapter 27 - It's Okay

**Slight dub-con in this chapter**

Chapter 27 – Malfoy Manor – January 26th, 1946

Tom stood and surveyed the men around the table.

“Now, Alfred, Severus and Gavin, I look to you because you have control over what are, arguably, the most important sectors that keep out countries running,” he paused briefly, to ensure they were all on track, “the Avery line with their influence over traded goods such as steel, aggregate, and wood, as well, not to mention your own position in your British Ministry as Head of the Department of Infrastructure,” he gave a clipped nod towards Alfred Avery, Frederick's father, who was listening intently, before turning to Severus Prince.

“And you, Severus, as head of the Prince family, who owns majority control over imported and domestic dealings of potions ingredients, that everyone, from students to healers rely on,” he continued, nodding his head to the wizard, formerly known as Severus Snape, up until ten years ago, where he was elevated to head of his maternal line, upon the death of the previous head, as the last heir.

The wizard was a dour fellow with a hook nose, and oily hair braided down his back, who kept a stony facade at being addressed. Tom turned then to Gavin, the father of Vincent Crabbe, a large, heavily muscled man, who held a cool gaze.

“Gavin, it goes without saying your importance to the entire UK, as you're the one with the iron grip over the farming and food industry, which controls distribution and imports all over, not only, the wizarding world but the muggle as well. I commend you for that, you saw opportunity where others saw a waste of time, and your participation would be essential for any of this to work,” he finished, paying compliments where compliments were due.

“And what do you do, Lord Slytherin,” drawled Severus, fingers splayed against each other patiently, many others turned their heads curiously, and Tom smiled.

“I'm glad you asked, as I'm sure many of you know, I've inherited quite the financial boon with one of the UK's most successful weapons manufacturing, that leaves me able to fund a decent majority of this...collaboration, if you will, not to mention my votes as Lord Slytherin will very much become useful to eventually make us all very wealthy, _satisfied,_ wizards,” he replied, sending the wizard a knowing look when he stressed the word 'satisfied'.

The more days and months that passed that Tom spent as Lord Slytherin, a lot of falsehoods and ploys peeled away, educating him further to the true nature of the UK wizarding world. It was like an onion, peel away a layer to find another layer of fresh hell and corruption. Any notable understandings he'd had even two months ago, had been proven incorrect as he'd studied and done his homework on each of the men sitting in this room.

He now knew very well of the Lestrange grip on the prostitution industry, and Severus's continued patronage, with his notable preference for redheads, a light glinted in the other wizard's eye, as he nodded minutely.

Tom looked at the rest of the men, with cooperation, it would be so easy to control the majority of the isles, especially with Rosiers grasp on the liquor industry, especially after buying out Ogdens, the Goyles and their hand in textile shipping, Flints in gambling rings, and multiple Blacks in many of the higher positions in the ministries of Britain, Ireland, Northern Ireland, Scotland and Wales. That wasn't even including Malfoy to his right, who was notorious for his money-laundering and having a finger in every single other of the pies.

“Of course, we will have to play it slowly and carefully, lest we tip off any of the opposition, it will take time, but I am willing to play the slow game if you are,” he emphasized earnestly, with a hand over his chest, to a series of nods.

To say Tom was not the most content wizard in the room, would be an absolute lie, he was sitting at the head of a table, in a manor that was not even his, speaking to men two to three times his age, and yet having them hang onto his every word as if we were a contemporary of theirs. He had even been content for a while, even as he'd come up with this scheme, as despite his original intentions to sell Riddle Arms, with the war finished and with Helen's death, he'd reconsidered.

He'd been tagged in mid-December by multiple underground crime syndicates all over the UK, and few in Southern Europe (due to Helen's direct involvement of the war there) for the mass purchase of weapons, and it was only then did he realize the gold mine he was sitting on.

He could have been content with the power his lordship had given him, but his ambition had considered what power he could obtain if he nudged it a bit further. The wizards in this room, as well as himself, had the ability to hold an absolute monopoly over the entire wizarding world of the isles, and the unique position to practically do so legally through his status as Lord Slytherin, and Tom had every intention of grabbing at that opportunity with both hands.

“We will vote in favour of the next Progressive bill.” he waved his hand dismissively, “I believe it's some pension plan for the lower-class elderly population, give them a small victory, before we take a small victory. I've been considering our next move should be lessened restrictions on trade,” he explained, and Lucius, the Malfoy patriarch and father to both Abraxas and Draco, nodded beside him.

“Stay inconspicuous and build an empire all the while, it's plausible,” he murmured, and Tom nodded. They all discussed further specifics for the next hour before the room cleared out until it was only Tom left with Lucius, who handed him a drink.

“You've come a long way in such a short time, Lord Slytherin,” Lucius began, and Tom took a sip, inclining his head, waiting for the older wizard's point, “have you decided to look at offers for betrothal yet?” he asked lightly, swirling his tumbler.

'Ah, there it is,' he thought mockingly, they were all on board with him until it came to his blood status, and in their eyes, the only way to right that 'wrong' was to marry pure. He shook his head, deciding not to say anything to the contrary, lest he regret it, but Lucius surprised him.

“Good, you're young still, charismatic, and on the cusp of something monumental for our world, can't have you getting distracted,” he drawled, eyeing him, and Tom somehow knew he was being warned about his attachment to Hermione. He could only guess that it was Abraxas who'd have let it slip, simply because it was only he and Orion who were aware of the room inside his own, and it was simply not Orion's style to gossip.

Disturbingly enough, Tom knew, through the truths he'd discovered these past months, that he wasn't even being warned because she was muggleborn, no, but because he legitimately believed her to be a distraction. Contrary to what he'd learned in Hogwarts, and believed up until he'd began researching what was considered the ruling class of the wizarding UK, not as an outsider, but as a new contemporary, was that the ideology of muggleborns was nothing but a smokescreen.

For as long as he could remember, the talking point of children in Slytherin had been that muggleborns were dirty, that to touch or fornicate with one was to soil oneself, and of course, there was a small amount of the population that carried this belief to their geriatric age, however, the reality of the matter was that muggleborn disdain was a systemic mask to hide their fetishization.

Predominantly, it was pureblood wizards with muggleborn witches, though muggleborn wizards were affected as well, they were considered the forbidden fruit, so to speak, and Tom had fallen into this truth by grace of his attachment with Hermione.

He had learned that this was the reason the Lestranges were so very wealthy, not just here in the isles, but in France as well, it was an agreement with most members of, not only, the Wizengamot, to bar muggleborns positions higher than entry-level, so that they were forced to turn to less palatable avenues to make a living, like prostitution, but also notable members of the ICW to turn a blind eye to the practice.

Learning all of this had initially shocked him because not just a few months ago, he'd been under the impression that the Lestranges were the worst with their vitriolic hatred of muggleborns, when really it was a cover to make a profit off of their bodies.

The kicker of it all was, that none of the Progressive Party was able to do a damned thing about it, not only because the Traditional Party would always back the Lestrange seat, but because a few in the Progressive and Swing Parties themselves took part in it as well, and as seats were held through bloodlines, there was no weeding out the corrupt individuals.

All of this happened in the shadows of the magical world, none of this was public knowledge and of course, anyone who did try to bring it to light mysteriously disappeared, and the matter was swept under the proverbial rug.

He'd thought for a time that his regard for Hermione was shameful in the eyes of wizarding society (though not that he actually cared, evidently) but that it was, in fact, a regular expectation of the higher class, albeit secret in nature, had been baffling to him.

Of course, not all muggleborns were subjected to this fate, the ones that married purebloods went on to have extremely successful careers and knowing that, he'd come to realize that without even being aware, Hermione's success in any of her career ventures, were in his hands. It would be her relation to him that would fast track any bills she wrote to the Wizengamot, or even see that they made their way there at all, nevermind being passed, as the Wizengamot can delay audience to hear bills, regardless of diligence of the barrister.

Was it a disdainful practice that he knew Hermione would absolutely rage against? Yes, and that's also why he didn't tell her when he'd come to the conclusion. He knew she would drop everything to write a bill on it, and that it would be shot down should it see the courtroom unless he voted in favour, which would then cause him to lose a good amount of support he'd won until now.

So, he'd continue to 'play dumb', regardless of how unbelievable it was, because for him, it was damned if he did, and damned if he didn't, and since he essentially didn't have much of a conscious, he'd pick self-preservation any time.

To answer Lucius, he nodded, only to appease the man, but he had no intention of giving up his witch, though the older wizard didn't need to know that. He finished his drink and discussed a few more topics before heading home, using Lucius's private floo to travel back to Alcazar Deslizan.

He stepped into the entrance hall and called for an elf to ask where Hermione was, as the wards around the castle were a lot different than the ones he'd had at Riddle manor, as the castle's wards were light due to laying out features for Hermione's investigation and getting rid of whatever she didn't like, a small concession he'd made so that she'd continue to stay there willingly.

The elf told him she was in the library with the snake and the boy, which meant she was with Leonard and Kaa either decided to keep them company (she had run/slither of the entire castle) or she was bothering his ancestor's portrait. His snake had become a whole lot sassier since she'd discovered she could speak to the majority of the portraits in the castle, but apparently, her favourite (besides him) was Salazar because he complimented her scales each time she visited.

He walked towards the library, she was either looking for elf references or helping Leonard study, which the boy was finally on his third year material. It was a hatching plan of his that he may adopt the teenager in the muggle world, and give him the 'Riddle' name, training him to take over Riddle Arms so that he could keep the benefits of not selling the company, and yet, avoid having to deal with muggles, he was still working out the details though.

He walked into the library and looked around, it was large, with three levels that bordered the ground level, with the centre that held a large open hall, a sizable hearth and couches could be found at the front of said hall. Slytherin library was designed similarly to the Hogwarts library, and it made him wonder which had come first. He nodded his head in greeting to his ancestor, noting that Kaa was curled up by the fire, and seeing only one table covered with scrolls and books, but no persons, he flicked his wand and cast a quick 'point me'.

This led him to the second level, to an aisle near the back of the library, where he found both of them huddled around a book. He took her in for a moment, ignoring the boy at her side, she was wearing green robes, one of the ones he'd purchased, and they were a light sea-foam shade. That she was wearing his favourite colour (though probably unknowingly) gave him all sorts of other ideas of what to use the library for, and the thought now firmly lodged in his head, he made his presence known.

“What are you two doing?” he asked, walking further into the aisle to where they stood, and both of their heads snapped up. Hermione angled the book towards him, and he gave it a once over, more interested by the cut of her robes than the displayed text, but he managed.

“Old Irish Gaelic, how do you plan to read it?” he asked, amused, and she huffed, gently flipping through the pages.

“I don't know, I was thinking of contacting Seamus, maybe he knows someone who can speak the current dialect, but I haven't seen him in almost a year,” she rambled, and he looked towards Leonard, who now had another book in his hands.

“Leonard, would you mind leaving us a moment? I'd like to speak to Hermione alone,” he asked affably, and the teenager looked to Hermione for a cue, which Tom thought was curious, but wrote it off as she nodded with a small smile. He replaced the book onto the shelf by her head, though Tom made no more moves until he heard the sound of footsteps going down the stairs to the lower level of the library.

Hermione was stubbornly staring down at the book in her hands, and he could see that she was gripping it tightly, but took his time to admire her this time all the same. He ran a finger across her collarbone, the style of her robes (as he'd intended) were wide-shouldered that would have made wearing a brassier look peculiar, so she didn't, and as his hand moved, he could see the tips of her breasts harden beneath the silk.

Her hair was restrained under a white satin scarf tied into a knot at the top of her head, with a few fringe curls escaping along her hairline, emphasizing her slender neck, and the white of the scarf, with the sea-foam of the robes, complimented her complexion beautifully, as he liked it.

Her grip on the book was white-knuckled as he brought his hand down gently and tugged her robes downwards, releasing a breast, and he began rubbing the pad of his thumb against the dark brown nip, causing her to release a shuddering breath. His other hand grabbed the book from her hands and stashed it on one of the shelves, before drawing her closer and leaning his head down to latch his mouth onto her, rolling the sensitive nub gently between his teeth and tongue. Her hands were gripped at his sides, and when he glanced up, her eyes were closed, so he pulled her hips tightly against his, letting her feel him, causing her eyes snapped open.

“Right here? Leonard is just down the stairs,” she whispered lowly but frantically, and he popped her nipple out of his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he blew cool air at it, which ripped a whimper from her lips. She was so sensitive, and it always thrilled him to see what noises he could get her to make, but she did have a point.

“Well, then you best stay quiet,” he murmured, turning her to face the shelf, before moving behind her, and she gripped the shelves as he pinched her nipple again, while his other hand dragged the bottom hem of her robes up. He then knelt down, casting a sticking charm to hold the excess silk at her waist, and slowly dragged her knickers down her leg before pressing his hand against her lower back to encourage her to lean forward. He lifted her feet one at a time, before tucking the aforementioned knickers into his pocket and casting a cleansing charm.

Bringing his face up in between her legs, he ran his tongue over her centre towards her backside, and he vaguely noticed that she clasped a hand over her mouth to prevent the squeal that almost came out of her. He went back to diligently eating his meal, stopping only when her legs were shaking, but instead of letting her finish, he stood up and released himself from his robes, and slammed himself home, satisfied at her attempt to smother her own cry.

He bent her further and started a slow pace, he was in absolute bliss, she always felt so good around him, and this position was a thing of beauty. He was always able to go deeper from behind, and since he was taller than her, while bent at the waist, she had to grip the shelves to keep herself up, as her toes barely skimmed the floor, her lack of control making their activities all the more arousing for him. She clenched around him soon after as she came for the first time, and he picked up his pace until it was almost violent, earning a gasp out of her before she bit onto her knuckle to keep herself quiet, he continued pounding into her until all he could hear were her whimpers and the slapping of skin.  
  
'So much for being quiet," he thought smugly.

“Come on, cum for me again” he whispered lowly, reaching around to pinch her clit with one hand, and pinch a nipple with the other, satisfied when she snapped her eyes shut and began panting, indicating another release was building. He felt his own climax approach and so he smothered his grunts against her shoulder, slowing his pace but keeping his thrusts violent and hard, sending her careening into the shelf she was desperately trying to hold on to. He felt her clench and shudder hard around him, as she grunted into the back of her hand, which forced him to finish soon after, and it was so strong that he wrapped both arms tightly around her waist to pull her flush against him, to keep his composure, he then bit her shoulder, where he knew he broke skin at the taste of copper.

He stilled, licking at the bite mark, part of him not wanting to heal it, and hoping it scarred, he wanted a reminder of him on her at all times, he wanted to be inside her always, so she could never really forget him. The thought caused him to freeze, and idea percolating in his mind. Could he do it? Was it possible? He was broken out of his thoughts at her trying to release herself from his grasp, like a bird, straining in a cage that was his arms around her waist and cock still deep inside her.

“Tom,” she whispered, and he reluctantly let her go, pulling himself out carefully in the process, though he kept her bent over to watch his seed ooze out of her and down her leg. He licked his lips, with a sly smirk, he released the sticking charm on her robes, before tucking himself back into his own robes and turned to walk away.

“Tom!” she hissed, “my undergarments!” she whispered furiously, holding her hand out, and he merely smiled and shook his head, patting his pocket where they were. She gaped at him, and raised her eyes to the ceiling in silent prayer, before bustling passed him, annoyed.

He stopped and watched her go, his previous thought still ringing in his head like a pervasive whistle. He could be inside her always if he truly wanted to, but it begged the question...

  
Could one make a horcrux of a living being?

Bolt Hole – February 2nd, 1946

The new year came and passed along with Tom's birthday, and now they were on the final stretches of winter. Hermione took a sip of her coffee while curled up in her and Jas's flat, parchment was strewn all over the low centre table, a blanket draped over her shoulders and Crookshanks curled into her side.

Though she didn't necessarily live here anymore, as she'd been staying at Slytherin's Castle, she found herself running here more often than not, whether it was to escape Tom's company, visit Crookshanks (who Jas had been taking care of) or even to just use the office to have a space to build her bill. Besides, her portion of the rent was still being taken from her vault, and today specifically, she'd invited Seamus and Dean over, as they had escorted over Seamus's non-magical father, who spoke Irish Gaelic fluently.

She'd gone back to her internship at the beginning of January, and Madam Potter hadn't even batted an eye, just silently extended her internship to the end of September instead of the middle of August that had originally been planned, which had been fine with her. Along with her internship, she revived her efforts on building her bill, attempting to keep busy so that she wasn't constantly reminded of her loss. She'd collected a few texts from the Slytherin library that looked promising on the nature of 'elves', the only problem, translation charms were next to useless against non-modern languages, and unfortunately, Old Irish Gaelic and Gaul were just that. She'd been hoping that someone who spoke Irish Gaelic could make sense of it, and she hadn't been wrong. The three of them left about an hour ago after an entire afternoon of attempting to translate select passages and it was the closest she's gotten so far.

Hermione was just continuing to go through her notes, telling herself that she wasn't purposely avoiding the castle when in reality, she was. Everything at the castle was confusing right now, she didn't know what to think of her 'relationship' with Tom, if it could even be called that, and with Leo, because, well...he was still a walking reminder that her mother was dead, even though she knew it wasn't his fault, and she felt guilty for feeling that way.

It also wasn't that she wasn't appreciative of what she had with Tom, it was just that, well, a lot of the time, it was hardly her choice in the matter. He had been very supportive, in a condescending yet charming way, and he was a very generous lover, it was just...sometimes she wasn't in the mood, and he always was.

Their activities, it was like a game to him, to see how many differently inappropriate places her could fuck her and nothing seemed to deter him, not even her monthlies (though it had certainly been satisfying to hex him when he'd tried). She spent most of her mornings and nights with him inside her, and she felt like it was too much? How much sex was too much sex? She had no frame of reference of a healthy amount, and pretty much no one to talk to about it, which reminded her, once again, that her mother was dead, and then she'd begin to feel really tired, again, it was like an endless spiral.

There were some times that worried her as well, like this morning, he'd had her watch herself in a mirror, as she'd sat on his lap, taking him into her, but at a certain point, she'd flicked her eyes up from their joint parts to his face, and she could have sworn for a moment that his eyes had flashed red. A part of her thought she was hallucinating things in the haze of sex, and perhaps that was true, but it had unnerved her enough to not wave it off, and she thought, maybe it was time to leave the castle?

She snorted into her coffee cup, and there was her dilemma, she eyed the books from Slytherin's library on the table. Not only did she have no doubt that Tom would make it impossible for her to leave, but using that library was her surest way to completing her bill at this point, and that wasn't even mentioning, that once her bill made it to the Wizengamot, how likely would Tom vote for it if she essentially dumped him?

She grimaced, all of this was happening while she was still mourning her mother, and Kai's case had officially been declared cold this week, as there had been no progress for months. He had been officially pronounced dead three days ago, leaving his mother and all people dear to him with no closure ( she didn't dare add herself to that list, she felt she didn't deserve it anymore) and here she was fucking another man.

She was so close to finishing her bill, she could feel it, she just needed a bit more information, finish her internship, take her W.O.M.B.A.Ts and present it, she'd just never thought she'd had to sleep her way to her goals. She'd always prided herself for her intelligence and drive and had always disdained other girls who 'cheated' their way to success, and yet here she was, she was 'other girls' now.

The floo flared, and Hermione glanced up to see Jaismine waltz out and pause upon seeing her, and her heart gave a pathetic little prattle. She admired her, wondering if her locs always been so long? She watched her friend wet her lips at the following awkward silence, before heading to take off her cloak.

Hermione didn't blame her, she'd essentially abandoned Jas, and had taken comfort in Tom, someone they'd jokingly agreed was 'the source of all evil', and though she'd had her reasons for it, that didn't change that her friend had been hurt by her actions. This was the first time she'd actually seen her since her mother's death, as any other time she'd been in the flat, Jas hadn't been home.

The other girl took a seat to her right, placed her elbows on her knees and just watched her.

“I'm sorry,” Hermione stated, feeling dreadfully guilt, and Jas just sighed and closed her eyes.

“You don't have anything really to be sorry for, you lost your mother and who can say that anyone acts predictably while mourning?” Jas conceded, linking her fingers together, but Hermione shook her head.

“Loss doesn't give me the right to treat you, or any of our other friends as I did, and you were hurt, regardless of my reasons,” she replied, clutching her coffee mug. Jas was silent, neither agreeing nor disagreeing until she spoke.

“So, Riddle...are you with him?” she asked, almost warily, and Hermione felt her ears heat up. How could she answer that?

“We're...something, but I don't think it's anything concrete,” '...or healthy' she finished in her mind. She decided to respond honestly because she didn't know what exactly they were doing, she was sure it wasn't courting, at least. Jas nodded, though Hermione thought the other girl looked disappointed and thought she must be imagining things, but a hopeful sliver of her heart had to ask before she could stop herself.

“Why do you ask?”

Jas stared at her, eyes wide as if she'd been caught, and Hermione thought her eyelashes were so very long before she began to feel wretched for the thought. What right did she have to hope for reciprocated feelings from the other girl, when surely, she would be allowing Tom to do as he pleased with her body later that night?

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked that,” she clipped, getting up and shrugging the blanket off her shoulders, before walking to the kitchen to place her mug into the washbasin. She swallowed the lump in her throat and braced her arms on the counter, perhaps she should head back now after all.

“No.”

Hermione's head snapped up and she turned to find Jas leaning against the frame of the kitchen doorway, looking towards the window over the counter and passed the dining room.

“No, you shouldn't have asked, not now that you're with him, but I'm going to tell you anyway.” and Hermione was silent, rightfully chastised.

“I like you, I've liked you for a while, and I've seen the way you look at me, but I just assumed that maybe you weren't aware of it, because I know there is a stigma in the muggle world, but you do know it, I see that now, and you're still going to go back to him,” she spoke calmly, before bringing her gaze to look at her.

“I think you're stuck and that you don't know how to get out, Merlin knows Riddle is a dangerous bastard to cross, and you somehow have his undivided attention,” she paused, dark eyes looking sad, “but I don't want to be a second choice, not in any circumstance, I can't do that to myself,” she finished, shaking her head.

“I don't want you to be a second choice,” she replied, faster than her mental filter could stop her, she licked her lips and gripped at the counter, she dipped her head and let out a shaky breath. It made sense for Jas to reject her, despite admitting to liking her, with someone like Tom in the picture, even Hermione didn't think it was safe, so she couldn't blame the girl for being a consummate Slytherin in the end.

“But you're right, I think I am stuck,” she stopped, considering it, there was nothing she could do about it, so she walked out of the kitchen, passed Jas, to the low centre table to gather her books and notes, the sun had already set outside and Tom was waiting.

“For what it's worth, I'm sorry...and I'll be here if you need to get away, I will still be your friend and help you as I can...I just...” Jas spoke lowly and earnestly, but she nodded, all the same, slinging her bag strap over her shoulder.

“I know...goodnight, Jas,” she said, before grabbing a handful of floo, and going home, or as much of a home as Slytherin castle would ever be, and as she walked into the entrance hall, she didn't even have to look for Tom, because he was standing right there, waiting for her.

She felt her eyes burn, and the weight of her situation settled heavily on her shoulders, as she walked towards him and looped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, bringing a hand down to trace the line of her spine, he hummed, satisfied, and as if knowing she was upset, cooed in her ear.

  
“It's okay, I'm here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im not sure if that qualified as dub-con but i put the warning anyway, just in case.
> 
> Edit : I realize that I didn't portray the scene between Jas and Hermione as I'd intended, so I've slightly changed a bit of it to hopefully get my original intent across.


	29. Chapter 28 - Hungry?

**Smut and reference to violence in this chapter.**

Chapter 28 – Alcazar Deslizan – March 24th, 1946

Hermione woke to the bright sun filing in through the window, her arms draped loosely around Tom's shoulders while his head laid on her chest, and his arms encircled tightly around her waist. It was moments like these that made her almost not mind the direction her life had taken, because it was moments like these that she could just admire him as he was, without the reality of _how_ he was, ruining it.

She studied him, and not for the first time, nor probably the last, she thought he was the most beautiful man she'd ever known. She brought a hand up to gently run it through his hair, marvelling at the deep, rich shade of black, and the silky texture it maintained even in its current dishevelled state. On her chest, as he was, he faced the window, and with the light of the sun, she could almost count each of his long lashes, as well as the infinitesimally small and sparse freckles on his nose.

His arm tightened around her, and his eyes fluttered open, allowing her to observe as his pupils contracted from the light, which highlighted the strips of amber that circled the centre, so fine, that they were almost indiscernible from his usual translucent celadon. His gaze slowly focused, and he shifted his attention to her, studying her in return, before closing his eyes again and burrowing his face against her chest, which caused her to snicker.

“Stop, your beard is scratchy,” she jibed, voice still raspy from sleep, knowing that he'd object to his facial hair being labelled as a beard, and she wasn't disappointed.

“Beard?” he scoffed and proceeded to rub his jaw against her, earning a squeal and a struggle to remove herself from his arms, only to fail miserably when she found her body smothered by no less than three pillows and his upper body.

It was an idyllic Sunday morning, where they spent the rest of it lazily telling jokes and exploring each other's bodies, and she could almost pretend that they were a normal couple, which was absolutely not what they were, realistically. They eventually separated and went about their days, Tom bringing Leo to register him for his fifth year at Hogwarts, and she, to Diagon Alley to meet up with Géraldine and Jean Pierre, to help her with a few errands.

It was later while sitting outside at Florian & Fortescue's new patio, across from her friend and younger brother that Hermione finally started to consider that the day was looking to be one of her good ones. Those were few and far in between, but she'd vaguely noticed that they became more frequent and common, the more time passed since her mother's death, though Hermione wasn't certain that her bad days would ever go away.

It probably had something to do Jaismine tipping off the rest of her friends to her lack of adjustment after their emotional confrontation almost two months ago. There had been a divide between them during the winter months, when her mother's death was freshest, where she'd sequestered herself away from them, barely answering letters, and turning down invitations to socialize in preference for sleeping. It also didn't help that, apparently, Tom had told them to stick to writing and to give her space, which they’d hesitantly did, thinking he'd know because it had been him she had called for. They hadn't exactly been wrong, and neither had Tom been wrong in that instance (or at least she thought so) she had just felt bad that she'd pushed them away all the same. Though almost instantaneously after that confrontation with Jas, any one of them would show up to the firm on the days she was there, to either drag her to the pub, or to dinner, just so she wouldn't go hide away in bed at the castle when her day was done.

She was broken out of her reverie by the fluttering wings of a beetle that landed on the wooden fence railing of the patio enclosure, right beside their table, but quickly turned her attention back to Géraldine, who'd asked her a question. She hadn't heard it, so she asked her to repeat it.

“How's your bill going?”

Hermione only huffed in response, heaving a large scoop of ice cream, coffee flavoured, onto her small wooden spoon and into her mouth, wincing when it sent cold shocks to her brain.

“It's...going, it's just deciphering these texts, but also, because they're the only texts of its kind in the isles, I need to find data from somewhere else that can corroborate it, but there are absolutely no references on the study of elves or their magic that can be purchased on the market, here in the UK, at least,” she ranted and changing the subject so she didn't frustrate herself more, remembering that Géraldine had applied for a higher position that had just opened up in her department.

“How did your application turn out, you said you were going to try for it,” she asked, and her friend sighed glumly, shaking her head and stabbing her wooden spoon into her frozen treat, a lemon sorbet that was guaranteed kosher.

“I didn't get it, Selwyn did,” she answered moodily, and Hermione blinked trying to place the name.

“Wait, Nina Selwyn? Isn't she a year younger than us? That means she's being promoted after what? Six months of work over your year and a half?” she asked incredulously, outraged on behalf of her friend, and Géraldine let out a defeated sigh before shrugging.

“Maybe it's better after all, with this wedding planning, and taking care of Jean Pierre, I don't really have much time,” she conceded, and Hermione remembered that Ron and her and set a date, and oddly enough, she didn't feel any negative emotion over it. They had chosen December Fifteenth, and to say she was excited was an understatement, the past year had been absolutely awful, and she saw this wedding as a good way to start 1947 off.

“Don't say that! Don't allow them to walk all over you,” Hermione cautioned, and internally winced, thinking perhaps she should take her own advice, as she let Tom have far too much control over everything she did.

She scooped the rest of her ice cream up into her mouth and vanished the paper cup and wooden spoon, before placing her elbows onto the table and her chin in her hands, and considered her life as she knew it, while Géraldine nodded but didn't respond.

Jean Pierre was watching the beetle intently, trying to sneak his hand to catch it, but missed, causing it to fly away, and she watched it idly. She thought of her decision to stay in the UK, at least for now, she had considered leaving for about half a second, but chalked it up to being angry and frustrated, before dropping it entirely, as the idea of starting over had simultaneously sent a flash of anxiety to her stomach, as well as made her more exhausted then she's ever felt before.

She looked to her friend, who was also caught in her thoughts, Géraldine had found a life here, and though she didn't believe for a second that her lack of promotion was not discriminatory, she was getting married, had her younger brother with her, and was moving on with her life, despite the horrible tragedies she'd endured, and Hermione thought that there was no reason she couldn't either.

“You said earlier that we still have to head to Scribbulus to look for parchment for invitations, want to go now?” she asked, and her friend nodded, snapping out of her reverie. She gathered her bag into the crook of her arm while Géraldine cleaned the table of the mess, as well as Jean Pierre's hands and face of sticky ice cream, before she took one of the child's tiny hands in her own, while his sister took the other, and headed out of the patio.

_THE DAILY PROPHET – Evening Edition – March 24 th, 1946_

_Getting Rid of Elves?_

_You heard it here dear readers, you ask for unbiased news of_

_all that is happening and decidedly not happening, and do I have_

_a scoop for you! Apparently, there is a bill in the works to rid our_

_hardworking families of our elves, and I cannot stress the heartlessness_

_of the gesture, as some of our elves are considered family! As we know,_

_the last bill that made it to our impressive Wizengamot concerning house-elves_

_was in 1907, and it was spearheaded then by Madam Euphemia Potter,_

_though it did not receive the requisite votes then. Before that, was in 1888 by_

_Madam Guinevere Orpington, who'd died in a tragic broom accident a day_

_before the hearing, and was unable to present her case._

_Is the third time the charm? Do we not work hard enough to keep our elves?_

_Is it a ploy of the French to change our values and traditions to make us_

_more like them? You tell me, dear reader! Owl us your think pieces, and we will_

_publish them here in your number one source of news: The Daily Prophet_

_-Rita Skeeter_

Department of Mysteries Archives – April 2nd, 1946  
  


It was late in the evening when Tom was still perusing the archives of the Department of Mysteries, his grey robes were still fastened around him, the hood still drawn up with shrouding charm, and black dyed nundu hide gloves on his hands to protect his skin from lasting magical traces that clung to every surface of the department. He was disillusioned as an extra precaution and studying intently the small section pertaining to soul magic.

The idea of creating a Horcrux that was housed in the body of another was a baffling piece of magic, as theoretically, it should work, as it'd been proven that a soul exists despite their host bodies, but soul magic was tricky magic and theoretical considerations had no place within it. There was absolutely no data on the state a living vessel would take once it was a Horcrux, if he made Hermione into one, would she still be Hermione? Or would she be herself with characteristics of himself added? If so, how noticeable would those characteristics be?

This was, of course, hypothetically speaking on the chance that adding a part of his soul to her body would not kill her in the process, which was unacceptable. So, Tom made a concession, he would not make her into a Horcrux, not yet, not until he had enough information, and knew that she would survive it.

As it stood, he was careful of his every move around her (despite his more 'adventurous' behaviour), she was his shield right now, at least, in the eyes of the Progressive Party who were constantly looking for any reason to discredit him, as long as she willingly stayed with him, no one would think to truly accuse him of the crimes he was absolutely committing, and that in itself, was priceless.

He held in a chuckle, recalling when that Skeeter woman wrote her discrediting 'think piece' on elves, _oh_ , how Hermione had raged, not because she was found out, but because of the blatant spread of misinformation. He'd listened to her rant for over an hour on the 'dog-whistle' terms she'd found in the article, and though he'd read it and understood what she was saying, he still found it hilarious at how much it riled her up.

He skimmed his gloved hand across more spines before one stood out to him and he considered it for a moment. Plucking it off the shelf, he analyzed it, it was a small, thin book, like many of the others within the archive, as they all were essentially passed recorded experiments rather than published works, this one's title alluded to familiars and their mages.

An idea bloomed into his head that he hadn't considered before, that seemed all the more appealing as he thought more about it. He tapped the closed book against the inside of his other palm, before taking it to an empty table at the end of the aisle.

Potter Manor – July 28th, 1946

Guests milled under canopied tents that were spread around outside the grounds of Potter Manor, that stretched around the large Tudor styled manor, with its red brick and brown steep pitched roofing, accented by white and half-timber framing. It was Harry's twentieth birthday, and all of their Gryffindor's graduating class was present, socializing and playing games.

Hermione wandered around the grounds, looking at all the different trees and flower beds, the loud noises from guests talking seem to reverberate inside her skull, making her feel exhausted, even though she'd slept the whole night.

She leaned down to look at a batch of potion herbs, moving her swinging braids back over her shoulder, the greenish-blue shine of a beetle's shell on one of the leaves catching her attention. Before she could squint her eyes to scrutinize it, finding it vaguely familiar, the playful screams of children from behind her diverted her attention. She stood straight and turned around to see Jean Pierre being chased by Harry's seven-year-old sister, Maya, the sun's rays highlighting the silver strands in his blonde hair, and the coppery strands in her dark red.

She decided she should probably be more social, and head back to the crowd. She could hear cicadas whirring, and the sun was high in the sky, since Potter Manor was situated in the south of Britain, South Hampton to be exact, the weather was a lot warmer than she'd ever seen on Cape Clear, where Slytherin Castle was, in Ireland.

Today, despite her being out and about with friends, was not one of her good days, she felt tired, and very much ragged and weary to the bone at each encounter with old schoolmates, wanting nothing more than to go back to bed. Sometimes, it was just like that, and although her friends kept a close eye on her, she'd gotten rather good at lying and keeping a mask up so as to not worry them. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate the help, it was just that, sometimes, it felt suffocating, especially considering that she put up with Tom as well, who also kept a close eye on her activity, sleeping, and eating habits.

A waiter went around serving flutes of champagne, and curiously, she took one, wondering what her friend was up to that required the fancy display. She found out soon enough, when she heard the tapping of glass, and along with the rest of the guests, turned to where Harry was standing, clinking a spoon against his flute. Once he had everyone's attention, he tossed it back on the table, and cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses.

“I just would like to say a quick thank you,” he paused, making sure everyone was listening, “Thank you all for coming today, and most importantly, I'd like to thank Ginny Weasley, who had mercy on my poor soul, and accepted my proposal to marry me, not two hours ago,” he chirped, raising a flute to her jokingly while she laughed, shaking her head all the while. Seamus let out a piercing whistle through his fingers, while everyone else clapped, Hermione included, while still balancing her half-full flute in her hand.

She went up to Harry and Ginny and congratulated them, giving them both hugs before abandoning her champagne and leaving the party outside to head into the manor to floo home. It wasn't that she wasn't happy for them, she had already known that Harry was going to propose, as he had told her, just not when, since he said he would wait for the perfect spontaneous moment. No, she was ecstatic for them, but there was a pervasive hollowness in her chest that made it hard to breathe, and she didn't think she could take any more socialization for the day.

She greeted no one upon entering the castle, didn't even bother to look for Tom or even Leo. She made her way to her room, stripping her robes once she got there, leaving them on the floor before she crawled into bed, huddling the blankets around her before falling into a merciful sleep.

_THE DAILY PROPHET – Evening Edition – July 28 th, 1946_

_Potter Heir to Marry?_

_You read it here dear readers! Harry James Potter is officially off_

_the market! Son of Lord James Potter and Healer-in-Charge of the_

_Janus Thickey Ward in St.Mungos Lily Evans Potter has officially become_

_engaged to the seventh child and only daughter of the Weasley family._

_Ginevra Molly Weasley is also, notably, a star chaser for the Holyhead Harpies,_

_which she's been playing for since she graduated Hogwarts last year._

_While Mr. Potter himself is in year two of four of his training in our very own_

_prestigious Auror program, not to mention, he's up to take the Potter_

_seat within our illustrious Wizengamot, when his father steps down._

_Let me stress, readers, we are here to see it! We at the Daily Prophet will_

_be cheering all the way, and you can bet we'll be reporting on every other_

_spicy couple out there, so stay tuned!_

_-Rita Skeeter_

Athens, Greece – September 22nd, 1946

Tom watched Hermione as she went from food stall to food stall, looking for which street food she wanted, it was late afternoon now, and he'd planned this weekend in Greece for her birthday. Of course, it was mostly so he could take advantage of a trip to the Library of Alexandria, which was just across the Mediterranean, on the shore of Egypt, and because it was a venture he knew she'd also enjoy, he essentially killed two birds with one stone.

The stalls here, unlike in Martinique, were more like airy enclosures of white sandstone buildings, with narrow alleys. Since it was one of the oldest magical communities in the world, it was massive, and it spread both underground and above ground, weaving alongside the muggle world. It was big enough to be its own certifiable labyrinth, which was an apt description, as the magical community of Athens, spanned across the entire city and was called Ο Λαβύρινθος, or O Lavýrinthos.

It was their last day there, and to say he was summarily satisfied would be an understatement. The first thing they had done was secure a port key to the library, where he had searched for records on Herpo the Foul, as he was known in Britain, Ἕρπων ὁ δεινός in Greek. He was a dark wizard, and incidentally, a parselmouth as well, and not mention he was credited for being the first to ever hatch a basilisk, as well as the first recorded to have ever made a Horcrux.

It had been tricky to research without picking up his witch's attention to what he had been looking for, but he was convinced that she'd been too immersed in her own readings to truly notice. They'd spent two days in the library, and they both left extremely satisfied, as she also apparently found everything she'd needed to complete her bill, for which she was set to present once she finished her internship, and had passed her W.O.M.B.A.Ts.

This success of hers had been extremely rewarding for him once they'd gotten back to their villa, she'd been in a much brighter mood than he's seen her in months, enough for her to allow him to fuck her, enthusiastically, on every flat surface of their rented home. Not to say nothing either of how fetching she looked in the traditional Greek wizarding robes, which he'd purchased in all light colours and with her hair loose and untwisted, floating around her head like a cloud, the Greek sun catching the lighter shaded curls, he could say confidently how rewarding this trip had turned out.

After their activities the night before, while they still laid in bed, she immediately had taken out her colour coordinated schedule, estimating that she'd be able to present the bill in October, pensive look on her face as she chewed on the end of her quill, using his chest as a makeshift desk to write little memos on the side margins. He'd noticed in the passing year that, despite him not restricting her access to her friends, she'd become increasingly dependent on him for platonic physical affection all the same (though not that he was complaining). The mornings he woke in her arms with her hands gently carding themselves through his hair were probably the only moments he'd ever known peace.

He'd such a visceral need to keep it for himself, to keep _her_ for himself, that he would do anything to keep her there, even if it meant implicitly tying her to him by placing a piece of his soul into her.

He watched as she came back with two pitas, one with gyro and the other with what looked like chicken souvlaki, laying on a fresh pita and a thick layer of tzatziki sauce, with tomatoes and onions piled on top. She handed him the one with gyro, and he shook his head as he took it, absolutely sure that she purposely went for the messiest foods just to spite him when little did she know, she could put anything in his hands and he would eat it. Living in an orphanage had made food unimaginative, a lot of bland oatmeals and such, but he'd never starved necessarily, it mostly took a turn for the worse when the rationing hit with the war and during the summers he'd spent there, food had become scarce. Now that he was an adult, food was food, regardless of how messy or spicy it was, none of it bothered him.

They ate quickly, ducked off to the side away from walking traffic, against one of the white stone walls, when she finished, he'd noticed a spot of tzatziki on the corner of her lip, and leaned his head down to lick it, before kissing her. She leaned in, and fist her hands in his own white robes, reminding him, as her body pressed against him, that she wasn't wearing knickers underneath her chiffon robes, as they were still in his pocket from earlier that morning, he resisted the urge to escalate however and pulled away.

It was an experiment of his, instead of coercing her into sex, he riled her up, only to stop and make her decide if she wanted to continue or not. It was a bit of subtle conditioning for when she brought up her concerns that he didn't care for her consent when what she didn't know was that he got off on her enthusiastic consent the most.

She stared him dead in the eye as if considering her options before grabbing his hand and apparating them back to the villa, which was a significant jump, as it was on Nea Kameni, an island far south of Athens, settled inside the crescent of Santorini, which also held the volcano Tholos Naftilos.

Their villa was situated on the southwest side, against the actual volcano and it held the signature clean white walls and blue roofing of Santorini, except that this island was entirely populated by the magical population of Santorini (which was why they didn't care that they were situated on a literal volcano). The ground was always warm against bare feet, and they had a full view of the sunset in the west from their wide balcony, which is where she'd apparated them to.

He watched as she sat down on the low wall, back now facing the setting sun, and stared him down as she lifted her robes slowly. He licked his lips at the absolutely delectable sight she made, with the sunset creating a halo around her wild hair, darkening her skin more than it already was. Once she removed her robes entirely and sat there as naked as the day she was born, she opened her legs, revealing herself to him.

He took the few steps to reach her and knelt before her, grasping her knee and lifting it over his shoulder, and got to work, leaning in to drag his tongue over her centre before sucking on her nub while she gasped and gripped at the wall. It was definitely one of his favourite activities, because it was one thing to fuck her into a climax, and another entirely to bring her there with just his mouth and fingers, and she always made such delicious sounds, crossed between pleasure and shy embarrassment even until now.

She scraped her nails against his scalp as she came, legs positively vibrating, before guiding his face up and leaning in to kiss him, licking herself off his lips. He pulled her down onto the ground with him, and turned her to face the wall she'd been sitting on, grabbing his own robes and lifting them over his head, he stayed on his knees before lifting and settling her onto him backwards. She groaned lowly again, shifting her hips so she was more comfortable, her eyes closed in bliss.

“Watch the sunset,” he whispered in her ear, and she opened them, reaching forward to grasp at the wall, she rocked her hips on him while he looped an arm around her and placed a knuckle against her clit. He let her do all the work, to take what she needed, sporadically leaving small kisses and nicks along her shoulder, watching as she stared at the setting sun with her mouth open in a silent gasp, eyes glazing.

From her left side, he could see the sun highlighting her eyes into pools of gold and fire before he leaned in to kiss her temple, whispering soft encouragements in her ear. He shifted his hips slightly and he must have hit a delicate spot in her because she moaned and her eyes snapped shut.

“Please,” she gasped, rocking deeply back against him to try and replicate that movement, and so he splayed his other hand across her belly, that had been on her hip, lending her more force to her movements until she finally clenched around him and bent her head forward, as she climaxed. He took control after that to seek his own, the sun becoming flush with the line of the ocean when he found it, painting the sky a furious magenta as he held her flush down on him, spilling all he had into her. He then wrapped an arm around her waist, and the other across her chest, cupping her shoulder, he brought her back flush with his chest, still inside her, and kissed her cheek.

  
“Happy Birthday, Hermione.”

_THE DAILY PROPHET – September 23 rd, 1946_

_Romantic Greek Getaway for Mysterious Lord Slytherin?_

_Dear readers, have I got the juiciest details on the UK's biggest bachelor,_

_who turns out, may not be much of a bachelor after all! Eye witness reports_

_spill that Lord Thomas Marvolo Slytherin took a romantic weekend getaway_

_to Greece with one lucky witch, though unfortunately, her identity is unknown._

_Whew! Who would have thought that the descendant of Salazar Slytherin,_

_one of our esteemed four founders of our beloved Hogwarts, was a regular_

_casanova!? We certainly didn't! Ah! It's almost as if we can hear the_

_shattering of hearts across the isles, who is this lucky witch!?_

_Talk about juicy!_

_-Rita Skeeter_

Diagon Alley – September 26th, 1946

  
Hermione sat at Florian & Fortescue's on the patio after her shift at the firm, periodically checking her watch, pretending as if she was meeting someone, hoping her plan would work. It was almost as soon as they got back from Greece that Hermione was bombarded with mocking letters and vile howlers, some accusing her of stealing 'Lord Slytherin' and others rubbing it into her face that he didn't need her anymore, as he had someone else.

Turns out, Rita Skeeter was at it again, but this time, making sure to never name Hermione specifically. She didn't understand the reporter, she could just move on and find different stories that had nothing to do with her, and Hermione would gladly live her life without ever having to grace any of her atrocious columns with her eyes. She'd suspected for a while that she was getting her information illegally, but her piece on Tom had confirmed it, as portkey records were confidential unless requested by law enforcement with a warrant. The question had been, how was she doing it? So, Hermione tested out one of her theories, and had invited Harry to have coffee with her at the cafe down the alley, on their outside patio, when lo and behold, not five minutes into their conversation, did she see a beetle land on the railing near her.

Of course, she'd been absolutely enraged, but had restrained herself from acting out, carrying on with the conversation with her friend as if everything were normal, and when she left, instead of going home like she said she would, she had headed straight for the Improper Use of Magic Office, specifically, to look up the public list of registered animagi.

She hadn't known what she was expecting, but somehow wasn't surprised to find that if Rita Skeeter was an animagus, then she wasn't registered, and knowing the law as she did, she knew it was seven years minimum in Azkaban, depending on what nefarious purposes they'd used their skill towards. Seeing as Skeeter was using it to not only overcome to terms of her restraining order, but she was also using it to abuse the privacy of others, Hermione estimated that she would be looking at fourteen years.

So here she was now, glancing at her watch, waiting for no one, charmed unbreakable jar at the ready. She ate her ice cream, which was Coco Caribbean, as Mr. Fortescue had decided to keep the flavour from two years ago due to its popularity, and waited patiently.

Finally, a beetle landed on the wooden railing of the patio, and without preamble, her wand was in her hand and she stunned it, before scooping it into the jar and closing it. She finished her ice cream and placed the jar in her purse, vanishing the paper cup and wooden spoon, before heading to the floo with a spring in her step.

Rathlin Island / Northern Ireland – September 29th, 1946

Tom circled his prey slowly, as she whimpered at his feet, tied and restrained as she was, his spare wand resting lightly in his hand. He hadn't been on Rathlin Island since he's killed Kai Fawley in this very house over a year ago, a smirk tugged at his lips, he'd certainly benefited from that move. He heard a long hiss and his gaze swept up to Kaa slithering closer, he cocked his head at her, and whispered to her slowly, ignoring the sobbing mess at his feet.

_  
§ Have you explored enough? §_

_  
§ This place tastes like death and burnt meat_ _§_

He snorted at that, well, he supposed he did barbecue here a year ago, but it was interesting to note that she was still able to pick up on it. Perhaps he should destroy the house after he finished his business here. He turned his stare downwards at his victim, she was an intern for The Daily Prophet, not even eighteen yet, and muggleborn to boot. He'd picked her specifically because she would hardly be missed, and he also told himself that she'd probably be better off dead anyhow, as chances of her ending up in prostitution were fifty/fifty.

He crouched down and grabbed her chin, grimacing at the wetness of her entire face from her tears. He cooed at her, tucking a bit of her long black hair away from her face, behind her ear.

“There, there, it'll be over soon, I'll even make it painless,” he hushed at her, only for her sobs to renew, as she couldn't talk due to him removing her tongue earlier and cauterizing the stump in her mouth.

 _§ Are you ready? §_ he hissed at Kaa, who slithered into formation, her almost twelve-foot long body encircling his bound sacrifice. He pressed his spare wand to her chest, and gently kissed her forehead, and with an almost reverent whisper:

  
“Avada Kedavra.”

  
She slumped dead against him after the flash of green dispersed, and he laid her corpse down gently, wiping the remaining tears away from her unseeing eyes, before closing them manually. Kaa raised her head, and he got to work, gently using his magic to tug at the loose sliver of his soul, he took both hands to cup Kaa's diamond-shaped head and directed the piece towards her.

He felt a flash of resistance, Kaa's own animalistic soul reacting instinctively, before folding upon his insistence and accepting his will. He saw white as it settled and forced himself to stay calm. After a minute, the white faded and he blinked, but instead of looking down at Kaa, he was looking up at himself through her eyes, and he could feel her adoration for him.

He closed his eyes once more and pulled at his occlumency shields until the connection broke and he was himself again. Kaa was looking at him, tongue flicking, still very much alive and healthy, a result he was very happy with, and he nodded towards the corpse at his feet.

_  
§ Hungry? §_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters until this first part is done, and then I will be posting the second part as a new story "Le Plafond de Verre" in the series folder for Riddles and War.
> 
> *~*~*Also, yes, Kaa is the horcrux and Nagini is out there living her best life cause I never vibed with the idea of her being an enslaved Asian woman *~*~*
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter.
> 
> P.s sorry if ur reading this on your phone, and the skeeter articles look wonky af it was typed to look better on a laptop or computer


	30. Chapter 29 - Dignity and Respect

Chapter 29 – Riddle Manor – October 1st, 1946

Hermione apparated to the outside of Riddle manor, staring up at the sturdy home with a curdle of anxiety in her gut, it was the second time she'd been back since her mother's death, the first time being a week ago when she first brought the Skeeter-beetle here. Then, she'd just apparated right into her old room and left the jar on the counter of her vanity with a sticking charm, with plenty of vegetation for her to eat and water for her to drink (she wasn't heartless) before apparating out again.

Now, she entered through the front door and glanced around, the once grandiose marble entrance hall seemed dull and grey in comparison to the gleam and affluence it displayed not a year ago. She walked to her mother's office, for the first time since her murder, and glanced around with a shuddering breath. In her head, she could hear echoes of gunshots and kicks to the door by Edward and Henry, and she felt the panic from that day creep back up her spine, her breathing becoming ragged.

She entered the office and sat in her mother's seat, putting her head in her arms on the desk, thankfully clear of dust due to Tom's stasis charm, waiting for the attack to pass, while regulating her breathing and trying to get her heart rate down. These episodes happened sometimes, and she learned to get herself through them, the last time had been in the post office in York, where she'd held the key in her hand to check the box, and immediately had to leave and press herself against the wall in the alley beside the building, in hopes no one would see her and accuse her of being hysterical.

When the feeling of suffocation began to slowly ebb away, she pulled her head up and surveyed the room, nothing had moved or changed, from the expensive wine bottles on the shelf to her right, her mother's scotch bar to her back, or the muskets over top of the mantle, everything, except for the couch she'd died on, which was gone, leaving an empty wall, was exactly as it had always been.

She gave a shaky breath as she analyzed the room, all the blood had been cleaned, and there was no remaining evidence of the tragedy, but the memory of it was still burned into her retinas all the same. She ran a hand over the smooth, polished desk, and her eyes fell on the framed photo to her left, and she choked out a small laugh, reaching for it.

She remembered that day, her mamie hadn't wanted to sit for the photo, and she'd been angry over it, or, as angry as a seven-year-old could be. There weren't a lot of memories from her childhood that she remembered with perfect clarity, but that was one of them. She traced the blurred image of her maman's laughing face, before bringing her attention to her papa, they were together now, and maybe they were content, she'd like to believe they were, as going on without either of them in her life anymore was so very difficult.

She replaced the photo down, and took one last look around the office, before getting up and walking towards the door. Without a glance back, she turned off the light, and left, making her way to her old room. She hadn't taken any of her things when she'd left, all of her clothes and belongings were still there, untouched, she knew so because none of it was in Slytherin Castle, all the clothing or accessories she owned now had been purchased at some point, though she had an idea that Tom was behind it, it was the general understanding of living with him, that he was behind everything one way or another. As she approached the room, she cast an anti-apparition ward around that wing of the manor, she couldn't have her guest fleeing, after all.

She opened the door and closed it, and gave a once over around the room before turning the lights on, she then turned towards the jar on the vanity, noting the beetle was tapping against the glass impatiently with one of its tiny legs, a very human-like movement that had Hermione tilt her head at the insect. So without further ado, she spelled the cap off the jar, and as soon as the beetle flew out and landed on the floor, transforming into the witch, Hermione disarmed her of her wand, catching it as it flew to her.

“Ms. Skeeter, I hope your stay has been enjoyable,” she greeted lightly while the older witch scowled, straightening her posture from where she'd been kneeling on the floor.

“You vile girl,” she snarled, and Hermione only quirked an eyebrow at her, knowing that the other witch was calling her 'girl' to deny her existence as a witch herself, but she too, could play at that game.

“Says the vile insect,” she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest, both her own and Skeeter's wand in one hand while she made to examine her nails on her other.

“You know, the minimum Azkaban sentence for an unregistered animagus is seven years minimum. Now, using it to invade people's privacy, as well as subvert my restraining order against you?” she asked, clucking her tongue to get the point across.

“So you're going to blackmail me then?” Rita sneered, and Hermoine shrugged delicately and pursed her lips.

“I prefer to think of it as taking advantage of an opportunity handed to me on a silver platter,” she replied casually, watching the other witch's face carefully, which was going through the motions of looking like she'd swallowed a lemon.

“Fine, name your terms,” she clipped, straightening her cat-framed glasses, and Hermione tilted her head, a slow smile blooming across her face.

  
“Well...”

Alcazar Deslizan – October 16th, 1946

Tom leaned back in his chair and brought his goblet to his lips and he watched his knights, as well as members of the Traditional Party of the Wizengamot, discuss current events. He was hosting a dinner to celebrate their recent success of loosening restrictions on trade agreements with certain countries, as loosening them entirely (as per the original plan) had needed to be trimmed a bit to appear as if the goal was international relations, rather than a grasp at raising personal wealth. He had invited Hermione to join, but she'd barely concealed a sneer when he informed her of who would be joining, preferring instead to stay in the library to overlook the finishing touches of her bill, which she would be presenting in five days. In fact, it was a smaller reason for this dinner, to gauge a response to it, as he surveyed all the occupied seats, his eyes fell on Orion, who gave him a loaded stare, before turning his attention elsewhere.

He could feel the vow almost like a pinch at the base of his skull, regardless of his intentions with Hermione, he would be voting in favour, and Orion knew that too, getting everyone else to agree on it was entirely his own responsibility though. Tom learned a valuable lesson in sealing a vow with Orion, and that was to never promise unnamed favours sealed with vows ever again, regardless of whether the recipient was one of your closest confidants. Orion Black still had one favour over him, and he had no idea what to expect yet from the other wizard.

“So, Lord Slytherin, I heard Ms. Granger-Riddle is presenting a bill that will take away our elves?” it was Draco Malfoy who asked calmly, and Riddle almost raised a brow, surprised by his lack of derisive chortle, he stared the other wizard down until he began to shift nervously.

“You would be misinformed, as I've looked over the bill and it's summarily to give elves the choice to leave with no repercussions if they wish it, and if they wish to stay, then compensation should be awarded,” he answered slowly, swirling the wine in his goblet. He was not much of a wine person, but this was an aged red from Devereaux that Abraxas had brought, and he found he was enjoying it.

“Does that mean you will be voting in favour?” Rudolphous asked, amber eyes glinting, and Tom knew that he had to be careful with his answer, as it would be this answer that would shift Lestrange's eye away from Hermione.

“Yes, because I take care of my things,” he paused, running his tongue over his teeth pensively, “house elves included.” and he held Lestrange's gaze for a beat before the other wizard gave an almost imperceptible nod. He contemplated everyone else seated at the table and continued.

“This bill will prove to be a boon for us all, as it is the ultimate mask, the Progressive Party will be hard-pressed to predict our next move.” he tapped his finger against the table, “and for what we want to accomplish, total and complete power, we will need that security,” he explained evenly, to a few nods, only to hear a scoff. His eyes snapped to Draco Malfoy, whose previously calm demeanour changed to something contemptuous.

“Pretty words to disguise that you're only voting in favour because you're fucking the barrister presenting it,” he sneered, the chatter around the table ceased immediately, and Tom tilted his head to regard him, but the other wizard wasn't finished, “Seriously, why do we listen to you, it was one thing in Hogwarts, but here? You're just a jumped-up half-blood, who acts like you're better than all of us when you're almost as filthy as that whore you're shagging.” and he opened his mouth to continue, but was silenced by his brother Abraxas, who turned to him immediately with wild panic in his eyes.

“Lord Slytherin, I apologize for my younger brother, he doesn't know what he is saying,” he rambled, but Tom already felt the yearning settle in his gut, the hunger to cause pain surged through him, that had been dulled by politics for far too long. He raised his hand to stop Abraxas.

“Oh, I think he knows exactly what he's saying,” Tom replied affably, getting up. Yes, Draco knew what he was doing, and Tom guessed that Abraxas must have complained at some point to him about Hermione, and Tom's attachment to her. So, as he had no actual skin or money in the game they were playing, he'd developed his own distaste of him, based on things he'd witnessed, and no doubt his brother's testimony.

Tom also knew he was partially to blame, as he kept Abraxas on an extremely loose leash, he knew that eventually, the scraps of affection he gave him would sour eventually to complaints. That Tom had had so much on his plate that Abraxas's feelings simply couldn't have been a priority, was something he should have accounted for, as despite his competence, he was quite needy and sensitive.

He turned his attention back to Draco, he would have to deal with this disrespect, and he was certain it may sour his relationship with Abraxas even more, but he truly did not have a choice, as he'd been insulted at his own table. Such impertinence could not go unpunished. He walked towards him, around the table, trailing a hand lightly over the backs of the chairs of his guests.

“He insinuates that I am inferior, in my own home, while he eats and drinks at my table, and that I am, what did you call it?” he asked, stopping behind Draco's chair, “a 'jumped-up half-blood'?” he reiterated mockingly, and proceeded to turn his head to Lucius, who was now white as a sheet.

“Tell me, Lucius, is this how you've raised your son? To insult the host of the house?” he asked, lightly, only hinting to the cold fury running through his veins, and Lucius had the graciousness to give a swift shake of his head.

“No, Lord Slytherin, I have not, you have been a gracious host and this attack on your person is unwarranted,” he lied, Tom knew he was because he also knew that, despite personal reasons for speaking out, Draco was echoing the thoughts of all the snobby purebloods seated in this very hall, they just weren't foolish enough to say anything out loud. It was a lesson he had learned slowly since graduating, that his half-blood status would always be seen as a problem, but only because he dared to seize power and respect whilst refusing to act subservient to actual purebloods, it was a fact of the matter that ground on his nerves daily but that he forswore to change anyhow.

He briefly glanced at Severus Prince, the only other half-blood in the room, who sat staring stonily ahead with a sneer twisted upon his lips. He had learned that Severus was once, apparently, a consideration to be Draco Malfoy's godfather, due to his close friendship with Narcissa Black-Malfoy, but had been hijacked out of the honour by Lucius Malfoy, who held preference for Lord Regulus Black, clearly for obvious reasons, and despite the insult, he still kowtowed to the purebloods, which was a perfect example of someone Tom hoped to never become.

He turned to Lord Black, who was observing the drama with cool stony eyes, the wizard was only in his early forties, and was still quite handsome, like his son, but just as indiscernible as him too. To Lord Black's left, Tom could almost feel the malevolent glee radiating from Bella, as she sat between him and her husband, Rodolphous. He decided that his next step had to be worded carefully, lest he be seen as unhinged.

“Lord Black, since I am an ignorant 'jumped-up half-blood', I could swear the proper response to such an insult would be a challenge to a wizard's duel, can you confirm?” he asked, keeping his tone light, ignoring the pleading look from Abraxas, who knew very well of his duelling capabilities and style, waiting for an answer from the regal Lord Black. By putting the answer, and further consequential action on one of the most respected members of pureblood society, it would save his reputation if he decided to become cruel while duelling, something he had every intention of doing.

“You are correct, Lord Slytherin, as a host who has been insulted at his own table, you are owed the dignity of requesting a wizard's duel,” he spoke coolly, as if uncaring of whichever way the events of the evening proceeded. Tom smiled, bringing his attention back to Draco in front of him, who was as still as a golem.

“Draco Malfoy, I challenge you to a singular, no seconds, Wizard duel, do you accept?” he asked softly, and Abraxas undid the silencing charm on him reluctantly, to which he then gave a clipped nod.

  
“I accept.”

  
Tom proceeded to lead them to the duelling chamber, which was in the east wing on the second floor, and once they were all there, he directed an elf to hold a protective barrier between the battle and the guests, who stood in observance against the wall, while he and Draco stood ten paces apart. When all was prepared, and the elf (Nini? Niti? Hermione was the one who cared the for the elves' names) was behind the barrier, only then did he give the requisite bow, which Malfoy mirrored, before they paced back to their positions.

He tapped his wand patiently against the inside of his palm, allowing Draco to make the first move, which he did, sending a fast _confringo_ , that he side-stepped easily. In return, he cast a silent _colloshoo_ , sticking the other wizard's feet to the ground, before swinging a _bombarda_ at him. Draco realizing too late that his feet were stuck, leaned as far away from the blasting curse as he could, but was still struck on his left arm, which splintered.

He cried out from pain and shock, and Tom went back to tapping his wand against the inside of his palm, disappointed at the turn of the duel, even Antonin had set a better challenge than this, and this? This was an embarrassment for the Malfoy family, surely.

Draco started with school level spells, which Tom had returned in kind, which either exhibited that he was not taking this duel seriously, did not take Tom seriously, or, he was truly unskilled.

Malfoy undid the _colloshoo_ and sent a _reducto_ , which smashed against Tom's silent _protego maxima,_ before quickly sending a curse called _“sectumsempra,”_ which, if Tom knew his Latin, and he did, took no chances with a shield, instead sidestepping it, not trusting a curse that roughly translated into “always cut”. The appearance of a curse he did not know heartened him, allowed him to hope that this duel wasn't a giant waste of his time. So, in hopes that the other wizard would throw more unknown gems at him, he played with him, in an attempt to enrage him, like turning Draco's kneecaps backwards and turning to floor around his feet to ice, turning his silver hair, blue, all while batting away or shielding anything that was sent his way.

Draco caught on and began to shield from Tom's joke hexes, becoming increasingly tired with the injury to his arm, while Tom stood there generally unbothered. Until Malfoy sent an _incendio_ that hit Tom's shield, but just as quickly followed it with a _cucio_ , that he almost didn't dodge in time, as he felt the static of it against his arm. With that move from Malfoy, Tom decided to end this duel once and for all, and like he'd practised on Rathlin Island to destroy the little house of evidence, he twirled his wand, and in parseltongue, hissed the incantation for _fiendfyre_ , his inherited language giving him more control than his human tongue ever did.

Draco's eyes popped in terror as a basilisk of flames roared towards him, and Tom directed it to encircle him, close enough to not burn him immediately, but enough to destroy his shield and injure him enough to win. As much as Tom wished to, he could not kill Draco Malfoy, because that would only serve to turn the Malfoys against him, however, that did not mean he would not teach the other wizard, and all of his guests, a lesson in what happened if they attempted to cross him.

He felt a bead of his own sweat run from his temple, the demon fire notoriously difficult to control, he decided to end it quickly before he lost the hold he had over it. Once Draco's shield was down, he guided the flames to brush against the wizard's right side, causing him to shriek in terror and pain, the right side of his face scorched entirely. Before he could fall forward into more flames, Tom ended it, the fire disappearing into the air, leaving a charred and smoking Malfoy barely standing, that is, until he collapsed and dropped his wand.

Tom stood there silently while Malfoy panted on the ground, obviously in a great deal of pain, and officially ending the duel, he summoned Draco's hawthorn wand to his hand. He walked towards where Lucius and Abraxas stood, both their pallor pasty in horror. He handed the wand to the father and nodded his assent to retrieve him.

“I've decided to be generous and leave him alive, consider it a gift between business partners, Lucius,” he paused, before waving his wand towards the fireplace on the far wall, “I've enabled the floo for you to get him medical attention, if you take him now, perhaps the disfigurement won't be completely irreversible,” he spoke coolly, clearly lying, and Lucius nodded his assent, thanking him while Abraxas refused to look at him.

Tom scoffed mentally, he knew his friend was angry that he'd requested the duel in the first place, but what he also knew was that Abraxas saw the world through his privileged lens, a privilege he and Draco both had to speak however they pleased, with no consequences. When they were gone, Tom turned to look at the rest of his guests, all of who held a glint of respect in their eyes, and he understood then, that the majority of them had been waiting for a moment like that duel to decide if they truly wanted to side with him. He scoffed in his mind because he knew that it was still only temporary, regardless, he would take advantage of it now. He fixed the cuffs of his robes before addressing them all.

“I hope no one else has any other critiques of my person they'd like to air, I'd like to think I am not unreasonable, but I will not take disrespect lightly,” he chided gently, to a series of nods, and Orion addressed him.

“To reiterate, the bill on elves?” he asked, and the other few, Traditional Party members of the Wizengamot, looked to him for clarification, and he nodded.

“We move as one body, we vote in favour because we have more to gain from the security it will give us, than what we would gain from voting against it,” he finalized, and though he was young, he could tell the older guests were considering his words and agreeing with them ultimately.

The dinner did continue, as everyone followed him back to the dining hall where they all retook their seats and enjoyed some food and drink, discussing different politics and plans for the future, until eventually, it all ended with nary another hiccup.

This, however, did nothing to dampen the itch under his skin, almost hoping as if somebody would challenge him again, so he could let it out, or scratch at it. When he reached his rooms and entered Hermione's, that yearning changed to something else when he found her asleep at her desk, bluebell flames in jars, lighting the angles of her face as her head was cushioned in her arms on the desk, and bouncing off the sating wrap around her head.

He cast a _finite_ on the jar, dampening the flames, and carried her to bed before tucking them both in, feeling entirely satisfied. He pulled her body tightly against his own and proceeded to fall into a content sleep.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – October 17th, 1946

Leonard Riddle (né Seaborn) was a lot of things, most of those things consisted of monikers, names, and descriptors that people have called, hurled, and hissed at him before, that he'd carefully picked up and dusted off, adding it to the collection that was his identity. ' _Mutt', 'dirty', 'retard', 'daft', 'waste of space',_ these were all things he'd come to assign to the identity of Leonard Seaborn as he grew. He often heard things like:  
  
 _“Don't wave your hands, sit on them.”_

“ _Your pitch is too loud.”_

“ _Why don't you listen?”_

“ _Why don't you speak?”_

“ _What is the point of you?”_

To the point where he'd even questioned himself, why was he the way he was? What was wrong with him? That was, however, until he met her, Helen Riddle. She had been kind, and she had been patient, she hadn't raised her voice, and had never asked demeaning questions about his existence. He'd read that abandoned animals sometimes imprinted upon humans, and he'd thought that might have been him, but when he voiced this thought to Hermione, she'd shaken her head and said _“no, because you are not an animal, you're a person.”_ and Leo thought she was very much like her mother sometimes.

Between the two of them, it was like the monikers, names, descriptors, and questions fell away, to reveal him, Leo, underneath, just a boy, trying his best, with magic.

Then she was gone, taken away by the man who'd fathered him, and Hermione went away too (although not physically), leaving him with Tom, an older boy he wasn't sure he liked very much, as he was cold and strict, but at the same time, he was fair. For a while, Tom was all he had, so Leo attached himself to him, in hopes to recreate what he'd had with Helen, but it felt like chasing a light that never got any closer, no matter how fast he ran.

The acceptance he'd felt had gone away, slowly, so when Hermione came back, he'd clung to her again, but she hadn't been the same, it was like something in her had broken, and she'd tried to piece herself back together only to find that the mould had changed. He felt to blame, of course, because it had been his father that had ripped Helen away, and he didn't know if he could ever make up for it.

When he went to Hogwarts, he wasn't welcomed into the society as he'd hoped, as finally being around people like him. No, he was given another moniker, this time it was _mudblood,_ as if somehow his red blood, the same as everyone else, was somehow inferior or consisting of wet earth (which didn't make a lot of sense to him, but he wrote it off as a cultural gap he wasn't aware of). He'd been warned, of course, by Hermione, of the prejudice he would face, she had explained the houses to him, explained that she'd experienced the same because she was like him.

This had helped strengthen his resolve to finish this odd schooling he was given but had cemented his desire not to give this world his hope, or his future. He would do the best he could, he would follow the crumbs Tom had left him, but the way he saw it, there was only one person he could ever be loyal to, and that was Hermione, not only because she understood, but most importantly because he owed her.

He owed her a hand of support when she flinched as Tom settled his hand against the back of her neck, he felt that Tom only took him in and helped him, because of her; he owed her for the death of Helen, for obvious reasons, and he wanted to help her as she helped him, even when she didn't know that that was what she was doing.

He head to potions, eager to get his classes over with for the day so that he could go to the library. If he was going to help himself and Hermione, he needed to put this new Ravenclaw behaviour to work, he didn't know what he was looking for exactly, but he was sure whatever it was, he'd find it, and if he had to read every book and archive in Hogwarts to do it?

  
Well then, he supposed that's just what he had to do.

Wizengamot Election and Audience Chamber – October 21st, 1946

Hermione walked into the very same audience chamber that had seen Tom ascend to the Slytherin seat and lordship over a year ago, and she'd almost reeled back at the realization that the last year had felt like both the fastest and slowest year of her life. She walked to stand in front of the table provided, no files or papers in hand, because she did not need it, (she'd spent so long going over every single word agonizingly, that she'd memorized her entire presentation). She _had_ prepared a copy of the bill which she entrusted to Madam Potter to oversee that the right people received it, like the current Minister for Magic, Leonard Spencer-Moon, and current Chief Warlock, Griselda Marchbanks.

She waited until the chamber settled down at the sound of the Chief Warlock's gavel hit the podium, and nodded when Marchbanks addressed her, handing her wand to the scribe to record her presence as true, and not that of a polyjuiced impostor. She knew her friends were up in the audience section, and willed herself not to look up at them for support, so kept her expression forward and impassive.

Once the semantics were done, she was asked to present her bill, so she took a deep breath, refusing to look in Tom's direction, and casting a sonorous, she began.

“ _Good evening, members of the UK Wizengamot,”_ she began, turning her gaze to address them all, hands behind her back, posture straight, and voice clear.

“ _I bring a bill today, to right an injustice that has been occurring under the noses of this nation, a phenomenon, if you will, built upon misinformation and ignorance,”_ she was sour to admit, that a lot of her original speech had been scrapped by Tom because it had been abrasive and offensive. Personally, she didn't care to pat their heads and see to their comfort, but Tom knew politics are well as the back of his hand and had insisted that if she believed her cause to be more important than her pride, then she would trust him on this, so she had.

“ _The injustice I speak of is, of course, elves, or as we call them here, house-elves.”_

'Do not separate yourself from them, if they view you as an outsider, they are least likely to listen to you,' Tom had said.

“ _We have been under the impression that we share our magic with them that helps them keep their lives, and while that is true, that is not how it has always been,”_ she paused for effect, _“elves have existed for far longer than the four hundred and seventy-three years that they have been our housekeepers, our cooks and our nannies. There are records of elves travelling the world, to the Americas, to the Mediterranean, to Africa, and to Asia by different groups of magicals over the centuries, whether they were British Colonizers, Anglo-Saxons, or even by Vikings,”_ she emphasized with hand movements, which were no longer behind her back.

“ _What does this have to do with their rights and freedoms? Well, for the majority of these voyages, alongside witches and wizards, they populated in these different continents just like us, and have of course, historically been observed in those different continents, and with that in mind, why is it that it is only in the UK that they are bonded to a wizard's magic?”_ she let that marinate for a moment, _“I will not compare the UK to how other countries have handled their elves, because that is counterproductive, as every country and their governing bodies have their unique and circumstantial history to take into account.”_

Rule number two? Three? 'Do not compare countries, they will see it as evidence, as an immigrant, that you view them as inferior, which will lose you your case.'.

“ _From the writings of Fahad ibn Salm_ _ān al Saud, a scholar in 1327, in what is modern-day Saudia Arabia, he wrote that elves feed off the magic of the land, of the ley lines that cover the entire world, and this study is corroborated via the works written by Niamh Orlagh Peverell, or as you may know her, the mother of Salazar Slytherin.”_ she had caved and had asked Tom to speak to his ancestor for her, and she'd had to pay dearly for that request, so come hell or high water, she was going to use it.

“ _What this means, is that it took only a single generation of wizards, and I theorize, who looked towards the Trans Atlantic Slave Trade and proceeded to erase hundreds of years of information to perpetuate an injustice to mirror that system, and with the truth, it is unconscionable as a society to continue with these ideals.”_ she looked around, and they all seemed to be paying attention.

“ _With this bill, we will give freedom to our elves, however, with the understanding of the generational trauma they have likely accumulated, we will give them the choice of whether to leave or stay and in the event that they choose to stay, they will be compensated for their work. This compensation, as well as protection from abuse, will be enforced by the full extent of the law, as they are beings who are deserving of our help and respect, and in time, as well with our help, the hope is that they will be able to reclaim a connection to the ley lines of the earth and will no longer need to rely on our own magic to live.”_

She took a deep breath to prevent herself from going on a tangent, she had wanted to add so much more, like employment benefits, housing, the ability to create their own communities, but Tom had stopped her, gently chiding her to do one thing at a time, that small steps were the way she would see her success. She readied herself to finish her presentation.

“ _I have heard often the term 'Magic is Might',”_ she paused, before continuing after a beat, _“but how can it be if we refuse to respect magic in all of its forms? Elves are the definition of magic, just as we, as witches and wizards are, and all magic should be sacred and protected. This bill is but a small step in a direction as a community, that we could be proud of. Thank you.”_ She clasped her hands in front of her and inclined her head respectfully.

“Thank you, Ms. Granger-Riddle,” responded Marchbanks, snapping the gavel quickly against the podium, “we will now take a vote, all in favour?” she called out, and Hermione had initially been hoping to win with the progressive party, and perhaps a few select cases from the swing party, but almost couldn't believe her eyes, when every wand in both the Traditional Party and Progressive Party raised in favour. A count was made quickly, before the few nays from the Swing/Neutral Party, and the one who'd abstained from any vote at all.

“Congratulations Ms. Granger-Riddle, your bill has passed.” and she nodded stiffly, still shocked, only one question running through her mind.  
  


‘What did he do?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter till the end of this installment :D 
> 
> This one took me a bit longer to finish cause I had like a 2 day depression nap, soooo, srry y’all 💀 
> 
> But it’s all coming together *que maniacal laughter
> 
> sorry to the Draco stans


	31. Chapter 30 - The Glass Ceiling

**Smut in this chapter.**

Chapter 30 – The Burrow – December 15th, 1946

The stretch of land outside the gates of The Burrow was lined with seats under land that had been cleared previously of snow, warming charms had been cast by every guest present, to fight off the December chill, and a weather ward had been erected around the edges of the ceremony, just in case it snowed again. Today was the day of Ron and Géraldine's wedding, and Hermione sat on the women's side of the guest seating, with the exception of Jean Pierre, who sat curled into her side, small hand in her own larger one.

The bride had requested some aspects of her faith be added to the wedding, and Ron, ever the supportive wizard that he was, had jumped on the idea enthusiastically. The ceremony had been lovely, a Chuppah had been erected, where the bride and groom had spoken their vows beneath it (though a standard Wizarding variety, to bond their magic together) and plain gold bands had been exchanged.

Herself, as well as Harry, Ginny, and each of Ron's brothers read the seven blessings, as directed by Géraldine, followed by the bride and groom breaking glass in a bag by stepping on it. Currently, they were all waiting for the two of them to come back from Yichud, where they'd gone into the Burrow's kitchen to spend a few minutes together alone, and eat soup, to which the celebration would continue when they rejoined them.

Hermione turned to look around, everyone was chatting among themselves quietly, and feeling a tug at her hand, she looked down at the small boy whose hand she was holding, looking tired while rubbing at his eye with his other hand. It had been a long day for him, he and Géraldine had been up and around people starting at around six in the morning. She presented her arms to him, and he climbed into her lap, luckily her hair was restrained into a tight bun, as he was able to lay his head on her shoulder while she ran a hand through his hair.

Small things like this reminded her that she truly didn't know what direction her life was going in, at least in the romance department. Would there be a day where she held her own child like this? Or was the life she currently had with Tom all she'd ever know? It's like she knew exactly what she wanted to do when it came to her career, knew all the ways she wanted to change the world, to make it better than it was, but throw in personal issues and she was as good as lost. Out of her friends, four were now married, with Dean and Seamus, Ron and Géraldine, and two were engaged, with Harry and Ginny, and it made her feel like she was doing something wrong. Arguably, what she had with Tom could be considered wrong on its own, and a part of her knew that Tom would never want more than what they had now (and that was to say nothing of even wanting Tom for the type of wholesome relationships her friends had).

She was broken out of her thoughts by a cheer, and looked towards the Burrow to see Ron and Géraldine exit, everyone then started making their way to the large white tent, where there were tables set up for dinner, and small floor for dancing. Mrs. Weasley had offered to take the sleeping Jean Pierre from her arms, the older witch having fallen head over heels for the small boy, and had claimed him an honorary Weasley, so Hermione didn't put up a fuss when Molly ensured that she'd just put him to bed in one of the rooms.

It was many hours later that she was a bit in her cups with Dean and Seamus, all of them laughing and bemoaning about how things were in the wizarding world. It was only when Seamus left to go to the loo, that Dean leaned over, voice slightly slurring.

“You know...I'm real impressed with what you managed to accomplish, an almost full house win for the freedom of elves is no easy feat,” he paused, taking a sip of his drink, “to be honest, when you called us over to get Seamus's da to translate that book, I didn't think you'd succeed,” he spoke, and Hermione's brows shot up. Dean seemed to understand the insinuation of his words and backed up, panicky.

“Not like I thought you were incapable, just that, these purebloods ain't so accepting of us,” he stammered out, and Hermione found herself nodding her head in agreement. Truthfully, the almost unanimous win in October unsettled her, and she still had no definitive answer for how it could have happened.

“To be honest,” she started carefully, “I think the Traditional Party only voted in favour because of the slim connection I have with Lord Slytherin, not because of the work I put into it, and it bothers me, but...I got what I wanted, so I feel that I have no right to be bothered, does that make sense?” she finished, warily glancing up at him, she didn't know how transparent her relationship with Tom was, but the last thing she wanted was to be accused of sleeping her way to her goal (even if it might be true?) and Dean nodded, face pensive.

“Yeah, I can believe that, the Ministry is like that too, almost transparent in their favouritism in purebloods and pureblooded names, that even half-bloods with powerful names are picked over the dregs of society, a.k.a us and half-bloods like Seamus, with his muggle father's name. Actually, I'm even surprised that they let Riddle hold such a powerful position,” he muttered, knocking back his drink, and Hermione titled her head at him, confused at the first part he said, though the second she already knew why after discussing it with Harry.

“Seamus is getting discriminated against too?” she asked, it made no sense to her, the majority population of the UK magical world were comprised of half-bloods, hell, even according to Ron, every single pureblood had some muggle blood as well, else they'd be extinct from inbreeding. The idea that the smallest percentage of the population, purebloods, after muggleborns, of course, could be the loudest and most in control, baffled her on the engine that was the UK.

“Well, nothing didn't not happen, if that makes sense?” he drawled, his voice deep and a bit more slurred but she waved her hand, encouraging him to continue.

“Okay, so, me and Seamus both started in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, right? Back when we graduated Hogwarts, we're both in the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, we both essentially started out as desk jockeys, running papers and the like, but it's just, when a higher position opens up, regardless that we have the requisite experience, we never seem to be enough to grab promotion,” he explained, but pausing to take a breath, “I haven't been promoted a single time, and Seamus has only been promoted once when we could have each been promoted three times on our work ethic alone!” he huffed, frustrated, and Hermione was reminded of when Géraldine had been denied a higher position earlier that year.

“Surely they can't be so blatant about it, there must be a muggleborn higher up somewhere!” she gasped out, outraged, and Dean shrugged before grabbing the bottle in front of him and refilled his glass, before refilling hers as well.

“Ulick Gamp was the first Minister for Magic, elected in 1607, and since then, there has only been one muggleborn Minister, and that's Nobby Leach in 1862, and he had to step down due to assassination attempts in 1868, he disappeared soon after, many say he was murdered, but that case is cold till this day, even his portrait at the Ministry doesn't know anything,” he rambled, taking a sip, and Hermione frowned, before huffing and taking her own sip.

“Well then, that's just going to have to change,” she sniped, swallowing the burning firewhiskey, and Dean grinned, raising his glass to hers.

“Cheers, I'll drink to that.”

That's about when Seamus came back, dragging Jas, Harry and Ginny, where they proceeded to play drunken poker (terribly) and Ron and Géraldine joined them after George attempted to turn it into strip poker. The mood had turned sombre when they each poured a sip from their glasses on the floor for Fred (though Hermione poured a second and third for her mother and Kai), and that was when she decided it was probably time to head home. Since it was Sunday night, she had to work the next morning anyway, and she was certain if she continued to drink, the night would not end pleasantly for her at all.

Saying her goodbyes, and giving hugs all around, she stumbled to the floo, and miraculously managed to slur out 'Alcazar Deslizan' without messing it up, before throwing the powder into the hearth and stepping through.

When she arrived, Niti, the elf was waiting, dressed in proper robes now that she had a salary (she hadn't been able to bully Tom into giving it to them before her bill passed), hands clasped in front of her neatly.

“Miss Hermione, Master Slytherin asks that you go to his office upon arrival,” her high pitched voice was polite, and Hermione squinted her eyes for a moment, trying to comprehend what Niti was saying, before nodding and heading in the direction of Tom's office. She looked at her watch, it was only one in the morning, so he was probably (literally) burning the midnight oil, and she wondered what he wanted (she had an idea), she snorted softly at that. Her feet were hurting her, so half way there, she removed her heels and carried them, continuing on barefoot.

When she got there, his door was slightly open, so she entered and leaned against the frame of it, observing him. He was scribbling away at parchments with his quill, and his hair was a touch dishevelled, but he was still, without a doubt, so very attractive, and her drunk brain was spiralling with thoughts on how badly she wanted to wrap her legs around his waist. She bit the inside of her cheek at that thought.

He looked up at her, and his eyes darted towards her heels in her hand, a slow smile crept onto his mouth, as he leaned back in his large leather chair to regard her.

“So? Any reason I'm here?” she asked, walking towards his desk, swinging her shoes onto the floor, before walking around it and leaning her butt against it, beside him.

“I can't check on your well being?” he asked, innocently, and she snorted.

“Since when are you sentimental?” she joked, as he leaned forward in his seat and collected his parchments off neatly to the side.

“I could have been worried,” he joked right back, and she scoffed, drunken brain telling her to be a brat on purpose.

“Why would you be worried? Afraid I won't come back? Afraid I'd go home with someone else?” she jibed, and watched in real-time as his playful mood slipped from his countenance immediately. His eyes flashed something dangerous, and he rolled back his chair, turning towards her, presenting his lap.

“Is that so?” he drawled, patting his lap, “come here,” he ordered, and a part of her wanted to snipe a 'no' at him just to spite him, the other part of her was too aroused not to play this through, so she lifted her robes and straddled him. She watched as he reached towards his drawer, and retrieved three things, the first was a sobering potion, which she gathered from the bright pink colour, the second was a band of fabric, and the third was a...moonstone? No, she squinted at it, an opal stone, that was small, smooth, and circular.

He handed her the sobering potion first, and she raised an eyebrow at it.

“I want you of completely sound mind for what I have in mind, I was going to save this activity for my birthday, but it seems appropriately needed now” he hummed, and she glared at him briefly before shrugging and knocking it back, she grimaced at the taste, her vision and focus clearing, as well as her nausea. She was only slightly confused as to why she was on Tom's lap, before she remembered why and winced.

She turned to him, and he was rolling the opal stone between his fingers, watching her with barely restrained mischievousness, he reached forward and tied the fabric around her eyes, and her breath shuddered at the implications. Her hands went to the buttons on his robes, but he smacked them away lightly, before restraining them behind her back with a silent incarcerous, and she gasped tugging at her arms, while he edged her robes up to her hips.

“Tom...” but stopped when he ran a finger down her centre on the outside of her undergarments, before placing, what she assumed, was the opal stone against her nub, setting it in place with a sticking charm, when she was about to ask what he was doing, he charmed it to vibrate in place, and it took all of her strength not to instinctively curl in on herself.

He placed his finger that had touched her into her mouth, before removing it and reaching behind her to pull her knickers up between her cheeks.

“So, you think I'd just let you speak about fucking someone else?” and she could barely understand what he was saying because she couldn't drag her focus away from the stone vibrating on her clit. She whimpered, trying to grind her hips down onto him, but he held her still with one hand, while the other smoothed itself over her backside before a crack sounded as he struck it. She cried out, leaning forward and burying her face into his shoulder, it shocked her, but paired with the stone, it heightened her arousal almost ten fold.

“I think nine more will do the trick,” he murmured in her ear, kissing her temple through the fabric, before striking her behind again, this time she bit at his shoulder, through his robes, hands pulling at her restraints so she could grip at him, but to no avail. She was just barely hanging onto coherence when he struck again, and her mind was counting with him. Another one, and all she could think of was that there were six more, and that once he finished, he'd better be planning to fuck her.

“How many was that?” he asked her, and she moaned out a 'four', pressing her forehead against his shoulder. He kissed her temple again while whispering 'good girl', before striking her again, and she felt that even if she wasn't blindfolded, she wouldn't be able to see straight. When he was finished, it felt like a hundred years had passed and she could tell that she was positively dripping, she couldn't even move her head from his shoulder from how powerfully that stone was edging her.

“Please,” she started, and he just sat there quietly, running a finger up and down her spine, she couldn't see, but she knew he was watching her, and enjoying every second of this, she now understood why he'd wanted to save this for his birthday.

“I'm unsure if you've learnt your lesson, I did not appreciate your earlier comment, maybe I should keep you like this for a few hours,” he murmured, before strengthening the vibration on the stone, causing her to groan.

“Please, I'm sorry,” she whimpered into his shoulder, panting, she could feel her curls coming out of it's slick bun with how much she was rubbing her forehead against him to brace herself. It was no sooner that the apology left her mouth, that she felt herself lifted and maneuvered only to be bent over the desk, her cheek pressed against the (mercifully cool) polished surface. She felt him tug her knickers to the side, instead of taking them off and felt him place only the tip of himself inside her. She tried to rock back, but he held her still, chuckling all the while, as if this were a game to him, and as if it didn't feel like she was losing her mind.

“Who do you belong to?” he asked, and she wanted to snap back that she didn't belong to anyone, but knew it would only make things worse, so she whined and abstained from answering. His hand was wrapped around her restrained wrists, holding her flat against the desk, and he upped the vibration of the stone again, which brought her to literal sobs as he repeated himself.

“You, only you, please, please,” she begged, and he suddenly snapped his hips forward, causing her to keen back and meet him. His grip on her wrists, and one on her hip controlled her movements, and her first orgasm was almost swift and instant, with a second one building, and she almost couldn't even feel her clit anymore, except for the shocks of pleasure that seemed to rocket up her spine, her brain was absolute mush inside her head.

He reached forward and gripped at her shoulder, pulling her to stand, continuously snapping his hips, his hand around her throat while she laid her head back against his shoulder. The change of position ripped another climax through her and all she could do was groan lowly, to which he then pulled himself out and turned her around, he hoisted her up onto the desk, and guided her to wrap her legs around his waist. He released the restraints on her wrists, so she could wrap her arms around his shoulders this time, while he set a brutal pace, his lips against hers, she scraped her nails against his scalp, and she could feel his shudder from it. He raised the stone vibration one last time, and she screamed as she came a third time, the vibration also causing him to climax, as he slammed into her to the hilt and stilled, he whispered against her lips, his breathing heavy.

“Remember those words, because no one touches you, understand?”

“The stone, Tom,” she whined, and he licked her tears away that had escaped her blindfold.

“Answer the question, Hermione, and I'll take it off,” he whispered, removing the cloth from around her head, and kissing her still closed eye lids, his hand then coming to sweep back her sweaty curls away from her forehead, and she sighed at the cool air it brought to her overheated face,

  
“I understand.”

Ministry of Magic – December 16th, 1946

Hermione was legitimately exhausted, she'd gotten maybe five hours of sleep, and had woken up with a sore bottom, and swollen clit that had made going to the washroom sting something fierce, to Tom's joy. She lectured him into healing her when he woke up, and he did, after he ate her out first in the bath, and a part of her was glad he'd given her a sobering potion the night before, because she knew her morning could have been so much worse.

She felt her face heat, she had never been that mindless during intercourse, sure, she got caught up in the moment of it, but never so much that she begged while crying, that stone was something else, truly, she felt like she'd lost everything that made her who she was in that moment, and that had scared her.

She'd gone into work, and today she'd been working on a pro-bono case for an immigrated Chinese couple, to which the wife was muggleborn, and had been reminded of what Dean had said to her while they were talking the night before. Sure, it was a bit hazy, and she'd been quite tipsy at the time when they spoke about muggleborn discrimination, but the idea that there had only ever been one muggleborn Minister in the history of the UK magical governance hadn't sat well with her.

So, here she was, in the Ministry of Magic, after a long work day, on minimal sleep, looking for the portrait of Nobby Leach, in the hallway that held all previous Minister portraits. There had to be an explanation for the rampant discrimination against muggleborns, because the majority of the people she knew and interacted with, didn't seem to buy into that nonsense. She didn't think for a moment that every single person of the Progressive Party was innocent, or that every person in the Swing Party was neutral to every cause, including discrimination, and despite noted behaviours, she did not think the Traditional Party was evil.

She didn't even think Tom was evil, was he distinctly lacking in empathy? Yes, and did he have no trouble hurting people for his own gain? Probably, she wouldn't put it passed him, but he was not inherently evil, or unhinged, he didn't kill, maim, or hurt indiscriminately for no reason, and despite how much he always seemed to want her, he'd never actually forced himself on her, if she said no, he backed off.

Of course, she realized the bar was so, so low for him, and this opinion was formed solely on what she knew about him. Were there parts of him he likely hid from her? She didn't doubt it, but she would not and could not pass judgment until she'd either seen it with her own eyes or had indisputable evidence. It was a part of being a barrister that really skewed her sense of right and wrong, where normally she wouldn't be so partisan for those who meant her harm.

She wanted to research this before Leo came back from Hogwarts this weekend, she thought of the boy, she felt almost afraid of how much she cared what happened to him, she'd never had a sibling, but she felt like if she did, they'd be like Leo. She was worried about what type of world she'd essentially dragged him into, but then, would he have had a choice? What would have happened to him if her mother hadn't called for her, it was clear this world didn't care for muggleborns, and she winced at the possibilities, mind running wild with worst-case scenarios.

She read the names of the previous Ministers, starting with Ulick Gamp, a dark-skinned squat looking wizard with a white curled wig over his own hair, to Eldritch Diggory, the minister of 1733, who had tried to removed dementors from Azkaban. Some glared intensely at her as she passed, like Josephina Flint, who was Minister in 1819, and was famous for her fanatical hatred of muggles and their inventions. Radolphous Lestrange, Minister of 1835 watched her strangely, and his amber eyes made her shudder as she passed, until finally, she reached Nobby Leach.

With a sigh, she looked upon him, he was a tall wizard with a shock of ginger hair and exceptional beard. He was rather young looking, no older than mid-thirties, if she had to guess, he had a big forehead, wide blue eyes, and something about him reminded her of Ron. He looked up from the book he was reading to her.

“Minister Leach, I was wondering if I could speak to you,” she asked, to which he cocked his head at her, regarding her curiously, and to her peripheral, she could see the other ministers in their portraits, straining to overhear. She snapped her wand out and erected a small sound ward that covered herself and Minister Leach's painting.

She watched as he blinked in surprise and snapped his book shut, giving her his full attention.

“Not many try to speak to me, miss...?” he started, heavy Scottish brogue rumbling through the paint strokes, and Hermione answered quickly.

“Granger-Riddle, sir.”

“Ah, the one who caused the house-elf commotion, yes?” he asked, a mischievous glint in his eye, and she nodded.

“Yes, I wanted to ask you, as the only muggleborn minister...how did you do it? How did you become minister and overcome all of the blatant discrimination?” she asked, and his expression saddened for the moment.

“Aye, so it's still happening?” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

“Pardon, sir? What's still happening?” she asked warily, and he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“The discrimination does go far back. My da was a very wealthy muggle, truth be told, when I inherited everything after his death, I bribed a lot of people to vote for me, because I had a theory to prove,” he paused, to ensure she was following along, which she was, and she was unsurprised that underhanded tactics had been used, “there was a group of us, muggleborns who were tired of being held down, and so we created a small fringe coalition to uncover why the ruling class was so intent to do so,” he continued, stroking his beard.

“I had a theory, there are more of us then there are of them, more muggleborns and half-bloods combined, than purebloods, and they don't care which name is in power, as long as you have their best interests in heart, so I won the election with a few bribes and honest promises.” his expression then became troubled.

“Unfortunately, this portrait of me was created in '63, a year after I was elected, and seeing as I was murdered somewhere in '68 or '69, my older self must have stumbled upon something devious that ended his life, so I, as I am here, do not have many answers for you,” he finished, face sympathetic.

“You didn't find anything in the year you can recall?” she pleaded, there must be something she could use, a line she could research.

“There is one thing we, as a group, had heard whispers about, and I'm assuming it lead to somewhere, but you need to be careful, especially because you are muggleborn,” he cautioned, and she felt a chilled hand grip her spine, “whatever it turned out to be, apparently it was lethal to take out our entire group and if nothing has changed to this day, you are up against something big, I suspect, if you continue to chase this.” his eyes were wary as he eyed the other minister portraits, and she looked around, the majority of them looking miffed that they could not eavesdrop.

“What was it?” she asked, turning back to him, and he sighed again, he brought a hand up to stroke his beard again, but this time covered his mouth, essentially to prevent the other portraits from reading his lips.

“Again, we only heard whispers of it, but it was called 'le plafond de verre',” his answered from behind his hand, his voice low, and she copied him, placing a hand over her mouth.

“le plaf- the glass ceiling?” she asked, and just then she heard voices and footsteps coming from the other end of the hall, she turned her head towards the noise, to see who it was, but Minister Leach hissed at her.

“Go, before anyone sees you speaking to me, and be careful.”

She nodded frantically, cancelling the ward and disillusioning herself, she sneaked away back to the lifts, and it was only when she was back in the semi-populated atrium that she felt her heart rate slow, she carefully went over the conversation in her head. It all sounded ominous and very dangerous, but if she got to the centre of it all, things would be better, surely? Or they could start to, at least. She gulped, grabbing a handful of floo powder and making her way home, mind reeling.

What had she gotten herself into?

  
What was 'The Glass Ceiling'?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright y'all, that's the end of part one, I am going to take a small week break to write the first five chapters of the next story 'Le Plafond de Verre' to get a good momentum started, so I can keep my fast updating schedule. I hope you've all enjoyed D'énigmes et Guerre, and if you wanna stick around for the sequel, maybe subscribe to the series? If not, you'll find it under the Tom Riddle/Hermione Granger tag :D
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, thank you to anyone who read and left commenting, I appreciate the hell out of all of you. Bless!


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